Lessons in Learning
by PokeyDotes
Summary: Dean-13, Sam-9. After a moment of weakness, Dean and his family fight to move past it, and end up struggling in the aftermath all while fighting to work a job. Major Dean!angst/whump, minor Sam!angst/whump.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Lessons in Learning  
Author: PokeyDotes  
Warnings: Language, references to drug use and violence.  
Author's Note: I just want to say, this is not intended to be AU, but…if you try to line up the time lines and what not, it might drift that way. I know Sam was about eight when he learned about what John really did when gone, and I think he was twelve-ish when he first started hunting. But ladies and gentlemen, this is fiction, so please bear with me. Also, Dean's made references more than once throughout the series that suggest he's perfectly okay with recreational drug use.

There are OCs in this story, but they are minor. The story is about Dean and his family during a particular time in their life.

This story is already completed. It will be posted in six parts, and I will be posting them once a day in a selfish hope to get more feedback.

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He knows that his dad isn't mad that he got in a fight, he's managed to get in at least two a year since the third grade. He also knows that he isn't in trouble because his dad had to come to the school. Most times his dad had been able to smooth over the situation with a phone call, but there had been one or two principals that had insisted on meeting with John face to face.

No, he knows that his dad's mad because the entire situation had crossed the threshold on being FUBAR, emphasis on the 'FU'. Usually, anything that requires the cops tends to be, or at least that's how Dean's come to view life. Avoid the cops, things are manageable, but once the boys in blue show up, things get risky.

Dean hadn't even expected the fight. He didn't even see it coming until it was too late. And in all honestly three against one aren't fair odds, even if he's a more experienced fighter than most thirteen year olds.

As he sits in the front seat of the Impala holding the steadily melting icepack to his tender nose, he wishes like crazy that either he could start the day over or that it would hurry up and fucking end all ready.

Two hours of interrogation and poking and prodding by a school nurse who Dean's pretty sure is older than Death has drained all the adrenaline brought on by the fight and the immediate aftermath.

He's hurt, he's tired, and he just wants to go to bed. The fact that his dad hasn't said anything to him aside from "get in the car" since they were given the all clear to leave the school tells Dean that the day is far from over.

As he feels a trickle of blood start to drip from his nose, he tenderly brings up the already stained wad of paper towels and presses it to his nostril, sniffing as best he can without causing any more pain.

"Stupid assholes," he mutters into the silence, more as a way to ease his frustration than to give his opinion on the three boys responsible for ruining his day. His voice sounds nasally and rough, a combination of the busted nose and sore throat brought on by all the yelling. The fact that one of the teachers had to practically put him in a choke hold in order to get him off one of the aforementioned stupid assholes probably didn't do him any favors.

Readjusting the icepack and paper towels, Dean starts to realize that this is definitely a new record. He's barely been at this school three weeks and he's already suspended and been promised a week's worth of detention. Usually, it takes him a lot longer to settle in and find a way to unintentionally cause some sort of trouble. It' mostly always unintentional, his dad having stressed the importance of staying out of trouble, keeping below the radar.

Three weeks at a school isn't enough time to fully get settled in, at least not according to the concerned guidance counselors worried about his future. However, it is more than enough time to seriously piss off a group of grunge rock wannabes whose highest achievement to date has been successfully fabricating a water-bong out of an empty coke bottle.

While he hasn't put forth an effort to make any friends, Dean has managed to make a few acquaintances, a task in which he grows more proficient with each new school. He's spoken to a few of the other students, gotten to know a few names, most of which he's already forgotten, but he hasn't really made any friends, not the kind you hang out with after school and invite over to play video games.

He learned early on it isn't worth the trouble. Even if his dad managed to keep them in one school for more than one semester, they'd still end up moving on, leaving behind anyone who had shown an interest in wanting to get to know them with a hollow promise to keep in touch.

Three weeks into the new school, he's already learned two students' names: Eric, who shares the lab table with Dean in science, and Becky, the brunette with braces and big, blue eyes. Everyone else just sort of blends into the background as far as Dean's concerned.

However, now as the third week ends, he's officially learned four more names, each of which he won't soon be forgetting.

Justin Alexander or as Dean now calls him Asswipe, is in the eight grade, too, but should really be in tenth. His remarkably low IQ is only rivaled by his questionable hygiene and unique ability to make everything sound perverted.

David Moore, a.k.a. Fuckwad, is Asswipe's best friend. Despite being the younger of the two, he's the man in charge, or at least that's what Dean has managed to gather from the two times he's seen them. Dean secretly suspects that he probably learned to roll a joint before he mastered the art of tying his shoes.

Next is Reggie Barnowski. Dean now affectionately refers to him as the Poor Sorry Bastard. Reggie is that one stereotypical kid in the movie that no one really likes, but they let hang around anyway. In horror movies, Reggie's brand of kids are always one of the first to die, and by the time end credits begin to roll, most people have already forgotten the Reggie's of the world were even in the movie.

The Poor Sorry Bastard follows the other two around like a lost puppy waiting for someone to scratch him behind the ears. Dean's almost willing to bet Justin and David could tell Reggie to strip naked in the cafeteria, and he'd do it just to impress them.

Last but not least is Isaac Hardwicke. Dean simply calls him an enigma, not really sure why the guy did what he did, but grateful nonetheless.

Dean closes his eyes and rests his head back on the seat as the rain starts to ping on the roof of the car, light little drops that promise to show their strength with a little more time.

His tongue darts out, tasting the cut on his lip, the coppery taste of blood mixing with whatever antiseptic the nurse had cleaned it with. He hasn't even looked in a mirror yet, but he's almost certain he looks like he just had his ass handed to him, when in fact he was doing pretty well until Coach Reynolds materialized out of no where and began to pull the boys apart.

Each day, the students are given a nine-minute break between first and second period. Dean likes to spend those nine minutes sitting on the bleachers near the practice field. Hardly anyone goes there due to the mud and the borderline dilapidated wooden slats serving as the seating area.

Dean had been sitting alone on the bottom bleacher farthest from the school, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin dropped to his chest while he contemplated skipping the remainder of his classes.

However, any thought of playing hooky were wiped from his mind when the distinct sound of mud squishing beneath sneakers drew his attention to the area at the far end of the bleachers. Keeping his head down, Dean had used his peripheral vision to keep track of the slowly closing distance of the two approaching boys.

His head jumped up when a third, and previously unseen boy had made his presence known by kicking the metal pole supporting the bleachers Dean had been sitting on, causing a loud metallic ringing to echo across the empty field.

"Your name's Winchester, right?" Justin had asked, raising his leg and propping it on one of the bleachers.

Dean hadn't answered, but continued to look at the boy before turning away from the obnoxious smirk to see the other two boys standing maybe two yards away, identical smirks on each of their faces.

"I think he asked you a question, Dickhead," David had said, earning a high-pitched snort of laughter from Reggie.

Dean dropped his head, shaking it from side to side. When he looked back up, he had been grinning that playful, crooked smile his bus driver had warned him about, saying that when Dean's older that smile will hold the ability to make a smart girl forget her own name. Dean likes their bus driver.

"Very good, I was starting to get the impression that you weren't capable of thinking at all," Dean had retorted, resulting in an immediate frown from David and a look of confusion from Justin.

"You think you're funny, don't ya?" David had taken a step forward, letting the growing sneer completely take over his face. "Well, I'm _thinkin'_ you need to learn to keep your mouth shut."

Dean had heard the bell ring in the distance, signaling the end of break, but he had been too caught up in realizing that the three stooges' dumber cousins were seeking revenge to worry about trying to get to class on time. The day before, Dean had made the mistake of directing the teacher's attention to one of the three boys during Health class. The teacher had asked him if he could name the different aspects of the male reproductive system displayed on the overhead projector.

Dean had shaken his head 'no' but pointed to David, saying, "Why not ask him. He looks like he's _more_ than familiar with the _different aspects_, Mrs. Wade." When everyone in the class except for David proceeded to burst out laughing, it became obvious that he wasn't paying attention, causing Mrs. Wade to get very agitated.

Dean had forgotten about the incident, up until the moment David had taken another step towards him and Justin had pushed Dean's stack of books off the bleachers, sending them into the muddy grass.

Dean had wanted to punch the stupid right out of all three, but he wasn't a complete idiot. Not only was he outnumbered, but Justin was at least six inches taller and David had a good twenty pounds on him. No way did he want to get in a fight he knew he couldn't win.

Dean had been considering his options when a loud thud drew all four boys' attention to the far end of the bleachers. A new kid with shaggy, black hair had dropped his books onto the bleachers, slamming them down with enough force to insure he was noticed.

New Guy had cast a quick glance to Dean before turning his attention to the other three boys. "Looks like someone's having a stupid convention. How come I wasn't invited?" He had placed one hand over his heart, feigning hurt as he exaggerated drawing the corners of his mouth down, dramatically causing his bottom lip to quiver.

'_Who the hell is this guy?_' was the only thought Dean could think as the new arrival casually walked towards them.

"Fuck off, Hardwicke," had been David's only reply, shortly followed by Justin's taunting, "And while you're at it, tell your mom to keep her schedule open tonight. I want to see if I can really get my money's worth. You know, put my money where her mouth is, if you know what I mean."

Dean had watched as the new kid smiled as a look of hate flickered in his eyes. New Guy had ignored the jab at his mom, but took a step closer to Dean. "You do realize the bell rang, right? I don't think any of you can really afford to miss out on any good learnin', you know what with all those missing brain cells and what not."

"You need to watch yourself, Isaac." David had warned, giving Dean a name more useful than New Guy.

Isaac had ignored David once again, but still kept his body turned so that he was facing all three boys as he bent down and picked up one of Dean's muddied books.

"I just came to get my friend. Coach was looking for him, and I figured he'd be here," Isaac had lied. Dean had forced his features not to betray his surprise. He had never even seen this Isaac kid and he doubted the coach even knew his name.

Dean had bent down and grabbed the ruined notebook before standing to move next to Isaac. Dean didn't know why, but he liked the kid, if for no other reason than the fact that he obviously had the guts to help a complete stranger stand up to three stoned out degenerates. That and he appreciated the guy's sense of humor.

When Justin brought his leg down from the bleacher and looked towards David for guidance, Dean had known that he and Isaac needed to get out of there if they were going to avoid throwing punches. His dad had already been pissed, and Dean had been trying to put forth an effort to stay out of trouble.

Dean had turned to Isaac, mouth opened as he was preparing to speak when a fist caught him off guard, sending his head back and creating a bright light behind his eyes.

He hadn't heard the crack, but he had felt it. Any thought of trying to stay out of trouble had evaporated the moment David threw the first punch.

Dean had forced his eyes open, and allowed the anger to hide the pain as he lunged for David, blindly trusting newly aquatinted Isaac to have his back. Dean's weight and sudden attack had managed to knock David off his feet, bringing both boys to the ground. Blood had steadily poured from Dean's nose, mixing in with David's as Dean continued to pound his fist into the other boy's face.

It hadn't been until Reggie's foot collided with Dean's ribcage that he realized David was unconscious. Dean hadn't been able to look, but he had been able to momentarily hear Isaac and Justin fighting as he turned all his attention to the boy using his side like a kickball.

Reggie had gone down just as easy as David, but Dean had been a little surprised and secretly pleased when the kid began to fight back. He had ignored all logic and allowed the welcomed release of all the frustrations he had felt over the last month.

His dad's anger, and disappointment. Sammy's whining. New school. New students. New teachers. No trust.

The last month had sucked, and Dean had decided to take it out on Reggie Barnowski. He had been so caught up in the moment that he hadn't heard the yells, or the whistle. He hadn't even been aware of anyone else until Coach Reynolds wrapped his arm around Dean's shoulders and began to pull him off of Reggie.

Dean had continued to kick as he was dragged away, pushing against the arm around his chest, forcing the coach to bring his other arm up and wrap it against Dean's neck, screaming in his ear for him to calm down.

Dean had stopped struggling, letting the teacher hold him back as he fought to get his breathing under control, the adrenaline pumping through him like fire.

At first, things had seemed bad. One of the women had been leaning over David, one hand resting on his chest to hold him down as he furiously tried to blink away confusion and pain. Several other teachers had stood between the other boys, serving as human barriers. Reggie, Coach Reynolds, and Dean were still on the ground.

Yeah, things had looked bad, but Dean would look back and realize that bad would have been preferable.

One of the lunch ladies, hair net still in place, had bent over and picked up something from the ground. The word 'Ziploc' stood out in frosty lettering against the murky texture of the bag, and yellow looking pills had bundled together in the corner as she held the bag at an angle in the air.

Dean had stared a the bag, wondering why Coach Reynolds had suddenly tensed behind him, pulling him up by his collar when the world righted and Dean had realized just how bad it all seemed.

The next few hours had been a nightmare. David and Justin claiming the drugs belonged to Dean and Isaac, prompting a screaming match between the boys, Dean getting reprimanded for 'unkind' language.

Dean had rolled his eyes and spit more blood into the nurse's sink. The freaking cops were on their way to investigate a potential felony drug charge, and the assistant principal was worried because he had called his fellow students a bunch of fucking liars.

When the cops had arrived, Isaac and Dean were left alone in the nurse's office. Each holding ice packs to different portions of their faces.

"I'm Isaac by the way." Dean had turned a surprised face to the boy who had one eye hidden by ice.

"Dean."

"Nice to meet you."

"Yeah, uh…you, too."

The conversation had ended when John Winchester walked in the room. He was pissed, and all of his attention had been focused on Dean.

Dean knew his father had been told about the drugs. When Dean tried to explain, his dad told him to be quiet, his tone not offering any room for discussion. Dean had felt the pit of his stomach rebel and had been embarrassed when he jumped from his seat to empty his stomach in the small sink labeled "Eye Cleaning Station."

An hour after his father arrived, Dean had been allowed to leave. Thankfully, Reggie had gave his friends up, telling the cops that the fight hadn't been about drugs and that the bag had belonged to David, supporting both Isaac and Dean's story.

Dean had tried once more to talk to his dad, but John had kept his eyes forward, one hand on Dean's shoulder as he steered him down the hall. "Get in the car."

Now, sitting alone outside New Hope Elementary, Dean reaffirms his belief in that old saying. What was it? Murphy's Law or something. If anything can go wrong, it will. And in true Winchester fashion, it goes wrong in a big way. Dean snorts as he thinks to himself, _Good ole Winchesters, never doing anything half-assed._

The rain begins to pick up and Dean opens his eyes as he looks to the large, wooden doors situated at the front of the school. With perfect timing, the doors part open and Sam comes running out, his book bag held over his head to fight off some of the water.

Dean can see his brother smiling; he can hear the loud, thunderous footsteps as his brother barrels towards the car in all his nine-year-old glory.

The back door swings open, letting in cold air, rain, and a little brother. Sam isn't quiet about getting situated in the back seat. He heaves his book bag to the opposite side of the car with a loud grunt. The leather seat creaks as Sam moves to sit on his knees and drapes his arms over the back of the front seat, bringing him face to face with his older brother.

"You got in a fight again." The words aren't accusing, just matter-of-fact, but Dean still gives his bother a glare that screams _no shit, Sherlock. _The glare probably would have been more effective if Dean's face wasn't covered by a bag of ice water.

"Why are you all muddy?" Sam asks, looking at the dry dirt coating his brother's hair and neck. Dean had changed into his P.E. clothes, saving him from having to strip down to his boxers for the ride home.

"Because, the ground's muddy, Runt." Dean hears the nasally muffle in his voice, and half expects to hear his brother's amused laugh, but all he gets in return is a look of concern and silent empathy.

"I'm fine, Sammy," he says, pursing his lips and experimentally flaring his nostrils. "Now, get your feet out of the seat before Dad gets back. He's already pissed."

"Yeah, I could tell," Sam says as he moves back in his seat, using his jacket to wipe away the water near the door. "It was kinda like before."

Dean closes his eyes to keep from rolling them. His brother may only be nine years old, but he's been able to put two and two together since he was five. When Dean doesn't say anything to confirm or deny Sam's theory, Sam leans forward again, gripping the seat and resting his chin on his fingers. When he talks his head moves up and down as the seat prevents his chin from moving.

"Is it like before? Like in Goodsprings?"

"No." It's mostly the truth. His dad's pissed because for the second time within a month, Dean has gotten in trouble. Both times drugs were involved, but unlike in Goodsprings, Dean doesn't have anything to do with them this time.

Despite the fact that the cops and principal believed him, and he had voluntarily taken a drug test, Dean knows that his dad isn't convinced. His dad won't take his word for it. Not anymore. Not after Goodsprings. One time, and he managed to loose all his dad's trust.

"Then why is he so angry?" Sam asks, bringing Dean's attention back to his brother.

"Because he had to come pick me up. Because I've been suspended for the rest of the week. Because I can't watch you after school next week because I'll be in detention. I don't know, Sammy. Take your pick." Dean feels the anger coming back, hating how easily it comes these days. The counselor at his last school had said it was normal, most boys his age have a difficult time controlling their emotions. She had said something about hormones, testosterone, growing responsibilities, blah, blah, blah. Dean didn't want her to be sympathetic, he wanted her to leave him alone.

"If you say so." Sam removes his hands and leans back in the seat when he sees their father making his way to the car, his entire stride showing anger. "I just don't want you to be in trouble again." Sam's voice is quiet, almost a whisper. Dean doesn't have time to reassure his brother before their dad is opening the driver's door. In all honesty, Dean doesn't know if he can promise his brother that he'll be fine.

Goodsprings had proven to Dean that his dad wasn't completely blind to everything outside of the hunt. It had also proven that Dean wasn't too old for the belt, either. Albeit, then he didn't have a broken nose, busted lip, and bruised ribs. Dean's hoping his dad will at least take that into consideration if he isn't able to convince John that he really had nothing to do with the drugs.

John starts the car, pulling it out into the long driveway, and maneuvers it around the long line of cars and minivans waiting for the last bell to ring. As they pass the row of school buses, Dean looks to John but quickly looks away when he sees the muscle along his father's jaw begin to twitch, a sure sign that John's fighting to reign in his anger. They ride in silence, the sounds of the windshield wipers keeping tempo with Dean's increasing heartbeat as they get closer and closer to the small trailer park outside of town.

John slows the car down, easing it over the potholed street to the two-bedroom trailer at the end of the lot. He cuts the car off and pulls the keys out of the ignition, letting his hands rest in his lap as he runs a finger over one of the silver key chains. Taking in a deep breath and releasing it in a huff of air, he opens the door and quickly makes his way up cinderblock steps, unlocking the front door as the boys huddle close behind him.

Dean lets Sam walk in first, following close behind. He tries to wipe his bare feet on the worn mat by the door displaying a neatly printed 'welcome', but whose true function is to hide an intricate repelling symbol. He's on his way to the bathroom to jump in the shower when John finally decides to speak.

"Sammy, go take your bath." Dean watches as his brother's eyes dart nervously back and forth between him and his father. Sam's worried; he doesn't want to leave Dean alone with their dad. He doesn't want Dean to be in trouble again. Sam knows more than he should. He had figured out that monsters are real, despite Dean and John's best efforts to shield him from it, and he had figured out why John had been so angry four weeks ago, prompting an impromptu upheaval from the small town.

Dean knows that Sam's figured it out, but John still isn't about to talk about it in front of his nine year old. He knows how close Sam and Dean are, and the last thing he wants, the last thing he had expected, was for Dean to drop the ball and set a bad example for his little brother. He had hoped that he had gotten the message across last time, but when Dean's new principal called telling him that Dean had been involved in a fight that had escalated over drugs, he realized he had been wrong.

Ever since Dean hit puberty, the kid has been a magnet for trouble. He always seems on edge, and it's way too easy to make him angry lately. John's only saving grace at the moment is that Dean is still Dean, just with a little more attitude and a lot more uncontrollable emotion.

He still looks after his brother, still puts Sam first. Dean still follows orders, at least when it comes to a hunt; he might not always be happy with them, his building teenage emotions causing him to slam doors and grit out a less than respectful 'yes sir', but he still follows them. John just hopes Dean's past all of this by the time Sam hits puberty, because there's no way he'll be able to deal with two emotional teenagers at the same time. Part of him hopes Sam will be easier to deal with.

When John notices that Sam has yet to move, he points a finger towards the bathroom, "I said go take your bath."

"But Dean's all dirty, and he's got blood on his shirt…"

"I said go, Sam. I have to talk to your brother." When Sam takes a concerned step towards his brother, John feels his hope that Sam will be an easier teenager to deal with fade away as reality once again slaps him upside the back of the head. Dean always follows orders; Sam just considers them unfriendly suggestions.

"Sammy, I'm fine. Dad just wants to talk." Unless they're coming from Dean. "Go take your bath, just save me some hot water." Sam takes one last look between his dad and brother before his drops his bag on the couch and walks to the bathroom, shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Sit," John orders, pointing to the card table serving as their dining room. He opens the freezer, and pulls out a bag of frozen peas. He breaks the peas up before handing them to Dean, taking the bag of water and dropping it in the sink.

Dean watches as his dad braces his hands on the sink and looks out the window. He keeps quiet; not wanting to rush his dad, because every second that goes by that Dean doesn't see a belt is a second he wants to hold on to.

When the sound of running water and creaking pipes can be heard, John turns to Dean, leaning back against the counter as he folds his arms across his chest. "Tell me what happened."

Dean puts the bag of peas down on the table, and manages to look his dad in the eye. "It's exactly like I told the cop, Dad. Isaac and I had nothing to do with the drugs. I don't even know what kind they were, I swear." Dean waits a moment, looking for any sign that would let him know whether or not his dad believes him. When all John does is continue to stand, waiting, Dean continues.

"Yesterday, I embarrassed Fuc- uh, David, and he wanted payback. So, he got two of his friends and decided to gang up on me. That's it. The fight was totally self-defense. You heard that old woman, David threw the first punch." Dean had never felt the desire to hug a lunch lady before, but when Mrs. Hair Net had stood up and told the principal that she had seen "that Moore boy" start the whole thing by punching "the blonde one" in the nose, he forgave her for being nosey and staring out the window.

"Where does this Isaac guy come in?" John asks, maintaining his stoic expression, not giving Dean any hint as to what he's thinking.

"I honestly have no idea. He just sort of popped up and started helping me out." When John looks at him disbelievingly, Dean quickly holds up his hands, palms out in an attempt to show his dad he has nothing to hide. "I swear, Dad. I've never met him before. I was telling the truth at school."

John rubs his hands over his face, sighing loudly as he pushes his palms against his eyes. "Dean, I want to believe you—"

"Dad, I swear—"

"Don't interrupt me." Dean quickly snaps his jaw shut. "I want to believe you, but you have to look at this from where I'm standing. Just a few weeks ago, I found you stumbling around stoned out of your mind, and now you _just so happen _to get in a fight with a group of boys who are known for using drugs in a secluded part of school with a bag of whatever. Coincidences aren't really common in our lives, kiddo."

"I know that, but Dad, I swear, I didn't know. I wouldn't do that again." Dean doesn't try to keep the pleading tone out of his voice.

"I didn't think you would have done it the first time." John counters. Even though he tries to keep his voice even, Dean still hears the disappointment. "Dean you've got to start picking better friends."

"I don't have any friends. I haven't in a long time," Dean snaps, pulling from the ever-present reserve of built up emotion. John's instinct to yell at his son not to take that tone with him is over ridden by the pang of guilt he feels. Every so often, something happens that reminds John that this isn't a life for kids. It punches him in the gut and screams in his face, but he just pushes it aside. Forces himself to focus on the bigger picture.

Dean half expects his dad to yell at him. He knows better than to backtalk, to show any form of disrespect to his father. But instead of yelling, John pushes himself off the counter and reaches for the flashlight on top of the fridge. He sits in the chair next to Dean and clicks on the light as he places his hand under Dean's chin, tilting his son's head back to look at his busted nose. "Can you breathe okay?" he asks, when he's convinced the bleeding has stopped.

"Yes sir." John uses his thumbs to run over the bridge of Dean's nose, feeling the small bump on the left side. He doesn't give Dean any warning, he just quickly pushes the cartilage back in place, and chooses to forgive the muffled, pain-filled 'fuck' that slips from his thirteen year old's mouth. After all, he only has himself to blame for that one.

The nurse had insisted he take Dean to the doctor, had warned him about the nose and possible broken ribs. John had noticed Dean favoring his right side as he got in and out of the car, but he wasn't moving as though the ribs were actually broken.

"Stand up and take off your shirt." Dean stands and follows his father's orders, relieved but a little confused at the sudden shift in mood. He had kind of forgotten about Reggie kicking him in the side, but as he moves to raise his shirt over his head, the pain forces the memory to the forefront of his mind.

John sees the pain momentarily flash across Dean's face before the familiar mask is back in place. Dean has had that mask since he was four years old. The skin on the right side of Dean's torso has already begun to bruise, easily catching up to the darkened colors decorating both his eyes. John tentatively but thoroughly runs his hand across Dean's ribcage, relieved when he doesn't feel any signs of a break. Both know that Dean will be sore tomorrow.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks, his hair wet and styled like a burnt haystack from where he had attempted to towel dry it. He's wearing a pair of ninja turtle pajama bottoms and one of John's old t-shirts. The shirt swallows him up, the neckline hanging off one shoulder to reveal a defined collarbone.

"Yeah, I'm good," Dean assures him, looking to his dad for confirmation.

John hands Dean his shirt and tells him to go get cleaned up. As soon as the bathroom door closes, Sam walks up and rests his elbows on the table. "Is Dean in trouble?" he asks, and John wonders at the combination of fear and defiance present in his youngest's eyes.

"No, he's not, but he's still grounded." John answers.

"From before?" Again, John is taken back by how much his kids pay attention, by how experienced and mature they seem when it comes to understanding certain things. Yes, they still act like little boys, occasionally rough-housing and getting a little too loud, but when compared to how he was at their ages, they are world's more mature. He doesn't know if he's proud or saddened by that revelation.

"Yeah, from before." Sam nods his head, biting his lower lip as he thinks over the information. "Sammy?"

"Sir?"

"What do you know about last time?" John knows his son hadn't been completely clueless. Sam had cried when he found out they were moving so soon after settling down in Goodsprings, he had made friends and really liked his teacher. The only thing that kept Sam from begging his father to reconsider was the whooping Dean had gotten the morning they left.

Dean had dropped Sam off at a friend's. Sam had thought Dean would have gone straight home, but when John called his friend's house, asking whether or not Dean was there with him, Sam realized that hadn't been the case.

A few hours later, John had shown up at the front door, apologizing for the inconvenience but insisting that Sam had to come home. Sam had been surprised to see Dean sitting in the back seat of the car, his attention completely focused on the dog across the street.

Sam had moved to climb in beside Dean, but John stopped him, opening the front door instead and gesturing for Sam to get in. Before his dad could even shut the door, Sam had turned around to face his brother, a little confused when Dean didn't turn to look at him. Dean's clothes had looked wrinkled and dirty, almost as though he had fallen asleep on the ground.

"Dean?" He had asked, trying to get his brother's attention. Dean hadn't answered, but did turn his head slowly towards Sam in a way similar to when Dean had gotten a concussion; his eyes were dark and looked heavy and wet. "What's wrong with you?"

"Leave your brother alone, Sam." Dad had snapped, causing Sam to turn around in the seat. John had slammed the door shut and sped off towards the extended-stay motel serving as their temporary home.

When they had reached the parking lot, Sam had grabbed his bag and headed straight for the door, trying to fight off the concern for his brother in favor of the anger at not getting to spend the night with his friend.

When he had reached the door, he expected his dad to be right behind him with the key, but when he had turned around, he saw his dad open the door to the back seat, and grab Dean by the arm, hauling him to his feet. His dad had grasped Dean's shoulders, making sure he was steady, before directing him towards Sam and their motel room.

When Dean tripped over the doorframe, Sam had turned to his father and asked, "Did he hit his head?"

"No, watch TV." John grabbed Dean by the arm again and moved him towards the bathroom. Sam had jumped up on the bed farthest from the door. Grabbing the remote, he had turned on the TV, but kept the volume low as he strained his ears to listen to the voices coming from the small bathroom.

"Dean, I need you to look at me. What did you take?" Sam hadn't heard an answer, but he assumed his brother had given one along the lines of 'I don't know,' because the next thing he had heard was John asking Dean, "What did it look like?"

Sam had heard something that sounded like the word 'pink', but then nothing else from his brother. When the door flew open, Sam had quickly turned towards the TV, trying his best to look as though he had been watching the Thundercats the entire time.

His dad hadn't even looked at him, just went to the dresser, and began sorting through Dean's drawer, pulling out a clean shirt and pair of shorts. When John turned around, Dean had made it out of the bathroom, not making an effort to do anything more than to stand next to the doorframe.

Sam had watched in silence as Dean clumsily changed into the clean clothes. His confusion had doubled when John made Dean lie down before taking one of his wrists.

Sam had stared at his father's face as he timed his brother's pulse, concern steadily building when John's frown had continued to deepen. Dean had continued to lie there as though nothing unusual were happening.

Eventually, their dad had stood up and pulled the covers up over Dean who had lazily blinked a few times before closing his eyes for good, allowing sleep to take over.

John had then stood and grabbed one of the duffle bags from beneath the other bed. He had taken out one of the rolls of quarters reserved for laundry and reached for the room key. "Sammy, I'm going to the payphone near the front office. Watch your brother, and if his breathing gets funny, you run and you find me. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Sam had answer, knowing better than to ask why his father didn't just use the room's phone. Dad was always making private phone calls. Dean had said it was a need to know kind of thing, and they didn't need to know. Sam hated it.

As soon as John had closed the door, Sam had scooted close to his brother, placing one hand on his chest so he could feel the rise and fall. He had forced himself to match his brother's breathing so it would be easier to tell if something were off. He had seen Dean do the same thing to their father a few nights before when John had come back with a cracked collarbone and a gash on his back. Dean had stitched him up, and helped him turn the ace bandage and an old shirt into a sling before disappearing with a few bills from the emergency cash and promising to be back.

Dean hadn't been gone long; less than an hour. He had handed John a couple of white pills and put a few more on the nightstand. John hadn't asked where Dean had gotten the pills, and Dean hadn't offered to tell. When their dad fell asleep a short time later, Dean had crawled in bed with him, placing his hand on John's chest as he told Sam to finish his homework.

Less than a week after that incident found Sam doing the same for Dean. Sam had turned up the TV, but had continued to keep a watchful eye on his brother. A few episodes later, John had come back and began to pack, ordering Sam to turn off the TV and go to sleep. John had walked over to the bed and lifted one of Dean's eyelids. He had frowned and then checked Dean's pulse again.

"Is he okay, Dad?"

"Yeah, he's fine. Go to sleep."

The next morning Sam had woken up to find all of their stuff packed and their dad gone. It had taken him a while but he finally managed to convince Dean to wake up, a little unnerved when his brother bolted to the bathroom to throw up.

An hour later, John had shown up and he began to yell at Dean. As soon as everything had been loaded into the trunk, John had ordered Sam to wait in the car while he went back in the motel room for Dean. When they came out, John had been carrying a belt, and Dean's face was red. They left Goodsprings and John enrolled them in New Hope two days later.

"Sammy?" his dad asks in a tone that suggests it isn't the first time he's called his son's name. Sam looks up at his father still sitting at the table.

"I know enough," Sam answers his father's original question honestly. "Not everything, but enough."

John shakes his head, and runs a hand through his hair. "He won't do it again, Dad. He learned last time." John just smiles once again at the wisdom and confidence present in his young son.

"I know, kiddo. Aren't you supposed to be doing homework or something?"

"Or something," Sam says as he walks over to his abandoned book bag. John leans back in his chair and for the first time since receiving that dreaded phone call, he feels his muscles start to relax. He believes that Dean's telling the truth, but it still doesn't erase the fact that it could have been true.

As Dean walks out of the bathroom dressed for bed, John stands and grabs the keys for the car. "I'll be back sometime tomorrow morning. You don't leave this house," he says turning and pointing a finger at Dean, before turning to Sam. "And you come straight inside after the bus drops you off."

Receiving a synchronized 'yes, sir', John grabs his jacket and walks out the door.

"What do you want for dinner?" Dean asks, as he grabs the thawing bag of peas and places it against his nose.

"Not ravioli. I'm sick of it. No noodles either." Sam doesn't look up from his workbook as he yells his unhelpful opinion over the couch.

"I didn't ask what you _don't_ want." Dean opens the fridge and frowns. "Cheesy eggs it is," he declares, happy when he doesn't hear a rebuttal from Sam.

Later as they climb into bed, homework done, and stomachs full, Sam watches as Dean eases himself down on the mattress. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

"Something else," Sam knows his brother won't say no. His knowledge is confirmed when Dean sighs heavily and asks a tired, "What?"

Sam stumbles for a moment, not sure exactly how to ask. "What happened in Goodsprings?"

Dean's quiet at first, not answering, not saying anything. "I thought you already knew."

"I know you took something and Dad got mad, made us move schools."

"That pretty much sums it up." Dean turns on his side, facing away from Sam.

"What did you take?" Sam is nothing if not persistent. Again, Dean takes a moment before he answers.

"I don't know."

"Where'd you get it?"

"Jesus, Sam. What is this? Are you looking to score or something?" Dean doesn't hide his anger.

"I don't even know what that means," Sam counters, a little upset that his brother's yelling. "I'm just tired of everyone keeping things from me."

Dean sits up on his elbows and looks at his brother. "You remember that tall kid that kept hassling me when we first moved in?" Sam nods. "I got it from him."

When Sam doesn't say anything else, Dean lies back down. "It was stupid, Sam." Dean closes his eyes and waits for the same tone of disappointment to come from his brother that had been present in his dad.

"Then why'd you do it?" Sam asks, generally curious and decidedly _not_ disappointed.

"I don't know," Dean tentatively touches his nose again, feeling the fever and swelling. "I was upset. Things just,…I don't know. The guy offered, and I took them. I never even made it back to our room. Hell, I don't even remember getting there."

"Dad found you."

"I know. He informed me." Dean's tone lets Sam know he really isn't up to talking about the details. So instead, Sam changes direction.

"Is that guy the same one you got the pills from?" When Dean looks at him as though he has no idea what he's talking about, Sam adds, "You know. The ones you gave Dad."

Dean's eyes widen in surprise, but only for a moment. "Yeah, that's where I got them."

"Is that where you always get them? I mean, you know, do you always go out and buy them?"

"No, but sometimes we don't have a choice. They're not easy to get, and sometimes Tylenol just ain't gonna cut it."

"Why—"

"Dude! Go to sleep already!"

"Fine, you don't have to be a baby about it," Sam says, burrowing under the covers. He feels Dean turn over a few times, trying to find a comfortable position.

"Dean?"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore, Sammy." Dean's voice is tired, and Sam thinks a little sad.

"I know."

"Then what?"

"I'm not mad at you," when Dean doesn't say anything, Sam turns so he's facing his brother. "And I don't think Dad's still mad."

"Trust me, Sammy. He's mad."

"Well, I'm not. I just wanted you to know." Sam starts to think that Dean isn't going to say anything at all, that he's just going to go to sleep, but as Sam starts to close his eyes, he hears Dean quietly whisper, "Thanks, Sam."

"Goodnight, Dean."

"'Night."

* * *

Part two will be posted tomorrow. If you're willing, reviews are appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

An alarm clock blaring through the silence of a welcomed sleep is never an appreciated sound. Dean hurriedly swings his arm up from under the covers, slamming his hand down on the snooze button only to immediately regret the action as the bruises along his ribs throb in protest.

"Sammy, get up." When Dean doesn't feel any movement letting him know that his brother heard him, he tries again, this time adding a foot to the mix with the hope of kicking his brother out of bed.

However, when all he finds is empty space, Dean lifts his head up and looks around the too bright room. Their curtains are actually old bed sheets and do nothing to block out the morning sunlight. He's alone in the room, something he should have known the moment he woke up and didn't feel his brother's arms and legs tangled around him. Sam sleeps like a fish out of water.

"Sam!" he yells. He's rewarded with the cut on his lip splitting open and a muffled ""What!?" from beyond the bedroom door.

Dean climbs out of bed and immediately notices that the change in elevation causes a deep pulse to pound across the bridge of his nose. He pulls himself up and makes it to the bedroom door just as it flies open. He has just enough time to throw up his hands in order to stop the door from hitting him in the face.

"Sorry!" Sam yells around a mouthful of what smells like bologna, "Did I hit your nose?"

Dean just shakes his head 'no' and looks at his brother. "Inside voice, Sammy." Dean's never really been a morning person, which kind of sucks when you've got a dad that insists on early mornings. Sleeping in past eight is a luxury in the Winchester household. A rare luxury. Usually when dad isn't there, Dean tries to sleep at least until ten when he doesn't have school. Sam alternates between waking up before Dad and having to be pulled out of bed by his big brother. Today is one of the former, treating Dean to the early bird special: a loud, bright eyed Sammy at six in the friggin' morning.

"You look like crap," Sam informs him, taking another bite out of a rolled up piece of bologna, the edges darkened from exposure in the fridge.

"Thanks, Sam. You're always so kind." Dean pushes past his brother and steps into the bathroom, hating the bright fluorescent light. He squints his eyes and blinks a few times as he adjusts to the brightness. Looking in the mirror, he realizes Sam _was_ being kind. He looks worse than crap.

Both eyes are accented by darkened bruises, which had the whole night to blossom to their full glory—a mixture of blacks, purples, and reds. His nose is swollen, more on the left than the right, giving his face a lopsided, distorted look. His lip is ugly and the cut is black with a little trace of red from where it had split open again.

He doesn't look like crap, he's fugly.

"I need you to sign stuff," Sam yells through the bathroom door. Dean rolls his eyes and lifts the toilet seat. "Did you hear me, Dean?"

"Yes, Sammy. I heard you. Can't a guy pee in peace?"

"My folder's on the table," Sam yells back, conveniently ignoring the last part of Dean's statement.

"Fine." Dean yells back. When he finishes with the bathroom, he walks out to find a blue folder lying on the table, a large sticker in the shape of a pencil plastered to the front with 'Sam W.' written in bold, black letters. There's a pen lying on top, ready for Dean to use.

Opening the folder, Dean sees a stack of graded papers, mostly A's as well as a permission form. A quick glance reads it's permission for Sam to have his picture taken with the class to be in the newspaper. Something about them being featured for their creative and influential science program. All Dean remembers is Sam yapping about building a volcano in class.

Taking the pen, Dean forges John's signature on each of the graded papers as well as the permission form. He's been doing this since he first learned to write in cursive. The first thing Dean learned to write was his own signature. The second was John's.

It's not identical to his father's messy script, but it doesn't really matter. Dean signs everything so there isn't a sample of John's signature for them to compare it to.

Putting the papers back in the folder, Dean stands looks around for his brother's backpack. Finding it on the floor beneath the table, he quickly stuffs the folder inside and zips it up.

"Sammy, d'you brush your teeth?" He yells, preparing for the battle.

"Yep," comes the quick reply. Short and staccato, a telltale sign that Sam is lying. "I don't believe you," Dean says back, making his way to the bedroom to see Sam sitting on the floor focusing his attention on tying his shoes. Dean wants to laugh because Sam's face is scrunched up in a way more appropriate for disarming a bomb instead of making a shoelace rabbit run around the bush.

"I did it before you got up," Sam says, purposefully not looking up at his brother.

When Sam stands, Dean puts an arm across the doorframe, blocking Sam's path. "Why would you brush your teeth before you ate breakfast?" Dean asks, not bothering to mention stale bologna isn't a suitable breakfast.

Sam shrugs his shoulders before he attempts to dart beneath his brother's arm. Dean stops him and spins him around, ignoring the protest his ribs and back make. When Sam yells back, "Let me go, Dean!" Dean has all the confirmation he needs that his brother's lying.

"Dude! It smells like something died in there." He quickly lets Sam go, and points to the bathroom. "You gotta brush, Sam. That's foul."

'You're foul," Sam retorts as he shuffles his feet to the bathroom. Dean watches as Sam puts a pea-sized amount of toothpaste on his toothbrush.

"You gotta use more, Doofus. That little bit ain't gonna kill that monster."

"But it's nasty."

"Says the genius that just ate expired lunchmeat for breakfast." Dean stands his ground until Sam adds more toothpaste and begins to brush his teeth. Satisfied, Dean leaves and looks for his shoes, but finding them still in a plastic bag with his other wet and muddy clothes from the fight, he settles for having to walk barefoot.

"Dude, let's go! You're gonna miss the bus!" That gets Sam's attention and he quickly runs out of the bathroom, grabs his book bag, and follows Dean to the door.

Walking to the entry of the trailer park barefoot proves to be a little more difficult than Dean had originally thought. Every few steps his foot lands on a small rock or something sharp. The fact that they live at the far end doesn't help him either.

When they finally make it to the road, the other kids are already there and none of them try to hide the fact that they are openly staring at Dean's bruised face.

"What happened to your brother?" Dean hears Jacob, one of the kindergarteners whisper behind him. He fights back a smile when he hears Sam whisper conspiratorially in return, "He's a power ranger, but you can't tell nobody."

Jacob doesn't say anything else, but Dean notices that the little boy keeps staring at him with a new sense of awe as opposed to the morbid fascination the other students do.

As the bus pulls up to stop, the kids all step back and wait for the doors to open. When everyone else is loaded on the bus, Miss Margie, the bus driver looks at Dean, taking in his bare feet, baggy sleep clothes, and bruised face. She quirks an eyebrow and asks, "I'm guessing you're not coming today?"

"Nope. Got suspended," Dean answers, giving her that lopsided grin.

"Did you deserve it?"

"Does it matter?"

"Boy, you're kind of moody in the morning aren't ya?" She places a hand on her hip and tilts her head.

"Yeah, because you're always just a ray of sunshine," he smirks.

"Hmmph. Let's see how you like riding around with all these kids," she says as she gestures to the back of the bus with her thumb.

"I _do_ ride around with all those kids."

"But you are a kid. Big difference," she smiles as she pulls the doors closed. Turning around Dean catches sight of Jacob tentatively waving at him from one of the windows. Dean holds up two fingers and waves back, laughing a little as the little boy smiles big before ducking down in his seat.

As Dean begins to walk away, he hears Miss Margie yell, "Everybody sit down, and shut up!"

"Yep, just a big ole ray of happiness."

Dean walks back to the trailer in silence, looking forward to the nice cool sheets and a few extra hours of sleep.

As it turns out, an alarm clock is preferable to the sound of John Winchester busting through the bedroom door at eleven o'clock asking "Why the hell are you still in bed?"

"I didn't have anywhere else to be," Dean answers, getting out of bed anyway. According to his dad, that isn't an excuse to sleep all day.

"Well you do now, so get up." Dean resists the urge to point out he was already getting up, and chooses to silently follow his dad into the kitchen.

"Where's that exactly?" Dean asks, noting that his father has yet to take off his jacket. "We're going to town. You're gonna get supplies while I'm at the library."

Dean can tell his dad's focused again, still working the job. There's a reason John only moved them to the next county: it's so he'd still be within driving distance of Goodsprings, home to a series of unexplained car accidents resulting in numerous deaths and mysterious eye-witness accounts.

"Hurry and get dressed. I'll be in the car." Dean watches his father walk out the front door. He should have known his dad would have him tagging along. Usually, when he's out of school, he's watching Sam. Weekends and summer breaks usually means watching Sam while out in the field. But being suspended has its perks. No school. No babysitting, or worrying whether or not Sammy's safe.

Dean is actually going to have some time to his self- a luxury even more rare than sleeping in. Dean loves his family, he'd do anything for them, but every now and then, he wishes for some space. Not a lot, just an hour or two where he isn't burdened with responsibility.

He never says it out loud, and he never will, but lately he's come to realize that some things just suck, that most times, life isn't fair. Never having enough money, food, or clothes. Having to explain to your brother why his friends can't come spend the night. Trying to convince their dad that the world won't end if Sam goes to play at a friend's house. Trying to make teacher's understand that his dad couldn't care less whether or not he finished his homework because half the time Dean wonders if his dad even knows what grade he's in let alone what classes he's taking.

Mostly, he hates seeing Sam struggle to throw a knife straight or hold a gun steady. It means his dad's getting him ready to help out, the same way John did with Dean when he turned nine. Dean knows he won't be able to watch Sam twenty-four seven, won't be able to keep him safe all of the time. It sucks having to put five stitches in your dad's back. Dean doesn't even want to consider what it will feel like putting even one in his brother's.

Slamming the door behind him, Dean jogs to the car. He climbs in to find his dad using the car's horn as a writing desk, quickly scribbling down last minute items to the uniquely Winchester shopping list. "Make sure you get all of this."

Dean doesn't even look at it when his dad hands it to him. He just takes it and sticks it in his pocket. "We need groceries," Dean says, knowing his dad didn't put any on the list. "And a few other things."

"Get food. _Cheap_ food." Dean just nods, knowing he's going to get the other things, too. Some things you can't live without, and toilet paper's one of them.

They drive to the small grocery store in the center of town. It's only a few blocks from the library, making it convenient to leave the car at the store. Dean's grateful because he doesn't think he could carry all of the supplies all the way to the library with bruised ribs. He's already feeling the strain just getting out of the car.

"Here." John hands Dean a wad of cash. "Make it go far," he adds unnecessarily, Dean's been shopping for the family since he was ten. He knows how to stretch a dollar.

When John tosses Dean the keys to the car, Dean turns and heads for the grocery store, feeling a little excited because this is the first time since Goodsprings that his dad's trusted him to be by his self.

All the excitement drains away the moment John yells out, "Dean, you come straight to the library when you're finished."

"Got it." Dean mumbles, feeling familiar feelings of embarrassment and anger.

"Loose the attitude before you get there," he hears his dad yell, but he doesn't stop to acknowledge that he heard him. He just keeps walking towards the automatic sliding doors advising shoppers to watch their step.

Most of the items on the shopping list are pretty straightforward: batteries, non-scented candles, a suspicious amount of salt, and a few gallons of water. Nothing too difficult. Other things though, require more time to find and have a tendency to be expensive. Sage, Rosemary, and a few other herbs Dean's almost certain most thirteen year olds don't even know exist.

Dean knows when he reads that his dad wants him to buy a full chicken, that it isn't just for dinner. He remembers a couple of weirdo witch doctors that had shown his father the benefits of chicken bones. He had been too young to really understand, but Dean thinks it had something to do with a protection spell. Either way, it means they're having chicken tonight.

Shopping for actual groceries turns out to be a little depressing. Mostly because Dean can't afford what he really wants, because eighty-three dollars can only get you so far. They can't buy any meat, at least not any kind that doesn't come in a can. Sam's turning out to be one picky eater, and there's only so many ways a guy can cook noodles.

When he starts unloading his cart onto the conveyor belt at the check out counter, Dean expects the cashier to say something about the odd assortment of items he's purchasing, most of them usually do. What he doesn't expect is for the twenty-something year old to look at him like he's something gross she's just discovered on the bottom of her shoe and ask, "Shouldn't you be in school?" Her tone is completely void of any friendly salesmanship.

"Shouldn't you be ringing up my stuff?" Dean asks, mirroring her tone.

"There's no reason for you to be an ass, you know," she says as she starts loading cans of Vienna sausages into a paper bag.

"I'm sorry," Dean lies, "It's my go to response when someone's being a bitch." She stops ringing up the items long enough to level him with a surprised glare, but doesn't say anything in response until she finishes bagging the last item. "Seventy-nine dollars and thirty-two cents," she tells him, holding out her hand impatiently.

Dean hands her the money and waits for his change. When he leaves, she doesn't wish him a nice day.

Despite only having been in the grocery store for an hour, when Dean finds his dad sequestered in the small library, he already has several pages of handwritten notes and even more photocopied images of pages from various books.

His dad doesn't really say anything to him except to put him to work practicing Latin and running to the front desk to ask the librarian to make a copy. Since his dad isn't allowing him to look around, Dean busies himself with reading his father's notes once the Latin starts getting redundant.

There are several references to different forms of demons, along with a few printouts of unexplained phenomenon believed to cause accidents. When the notes start to merge into quantum physics, Dean gives up and resumes writing out the different phrases in Latin.

Dean keeps an eye on the clock, watching as the big hand slowly makes its way around twice before he moves to interrupt his father.

"Dad, it's almost three o'clock."

"So?" his father asks as he sketches out a roughly drawn map from the libraries atlas.

"Sammy'll be getting' home in a little bit," Dean informs him. He tries not to notice when his dad looks put out about having to leave so soon, if you call sitting for almost four hours in one spot soon.

As soon as they're home, John helps Dean unload the groceries before he jumps back in the car. Dean's standing on the cement steps, getting ready to walk to the bus stop when John leans out the window. "Cook and de-bone that chicken. You know the drill," and with that he leaves with a promise to be back before morning.

Dean doesn't worry. He knows the drill, and not just where the chicken is concerned. Since he was seven years old, his dad's been keeping weird hours on the parent front, leaving Dean to hold down the fort.

As he starts walking to meet Sam, he remembers their landlord in Wyoming. She was an old woman, and was very vocal in her opinions. And boy was she opinionated. She had kept constant tabs on John's comings and goings, something the Winchesters usually try to avoid.

One morning when John got home after being gone for three days, the woman had met him on the front porch, screaming about how she should call child services, and report him for being such an awful father.

It wasn't the first time someone had mentioned John's questionable parenting skills. Even Dean had thought it a time or two, but that didn't mean John didn't love his kids. Where was it written that not knowing the proper way to raise children translated to not loving them?

Sitting on the curb of the street, Dean thinks his Dad's doing the best he can, all things considered. He knows things won't be so bad once Sam's a little older. Dean doesn't think about the fact that their dad had started leaving them alone when Dean was younger than Sam is now, because it's not the same.

Sam's the baby, always has been. He should get to be a kid. Dean tries not to think that sometimes, he wishes he could just be a kid, too.

It isn't long before the bus pulls around, dropping off the remaining seven of the trailer park's school aged kids. Sam's one of the first to get off the bus, and Dean doesn't waist any time ushering him back towards their home.

Jacob runs up along side Dean and looks at him with oversized eyes. "Hi Dean," he whispers, almost as though he's too scared for Dean to actually hear him.

Dean looks down at the kid but doesn't slow his pace. "Hey, Jacob. How was school?"

"It was okay. Mrs. Tanner fell out of her chair and Matt says she broke her butt." Dean just smiles, "Sounds like a fun day."

"What did you do?" Jacob asks, nearly jogging to keep up. Dean's a little caught off guard, because what can he say? He can't tell a five year old that he restocked their ghost busting kit and helped his dad look up info on demonic possession and weird physics, but then again, Sam did tell the kid that Dean was a power ranger…

"I bought a chicken." The statement causes Jacob to give Dean a thoroughly confused look, sort of like the ones that Dean makes when he isn't sure he heard someone correctly. Sam, however, lights up at the news of Dean's day.

That means they won't be eating eggs, or noodles, or something out of a can for the first time in a long time. Sam has a very limited list of things that he believes qualifies as 'real' food. Dean's come to learn anything that is easily identifiable as having once been an animal is on that list, chicken being one. Spam on the other hand, is not and Sam will only eat it when there is absolutely nothing else in the house.

Even when Sam was a toddler Dean could only get him to eat it by making up silly rhymes using the words Spam and Sam. After the incident with the potted meat, Dean learned not to tease his brother about food companies putting 'special' ingredients in various products. His dad had stocked up on potted meat and Dean had made the mistake of saying it was made of ground up rat-tails and chicken feet.

Sam didn't eat for almost two whole days, and he only ate then because Dean stole a package of hotdogs from a truck stop's deli. He didn't dare tell Sam that he couldn't list the ingredients in a hotdog either.

Dean can't help noticing that Sam's picked up the pace, suddenly eager to get home. With a quick goodbye to Jacob, Dean leaves the kid behind, hurrying to unlock the front door before Sam gets it in his head to knock it down.

"Chill, kid. I haven't even cooked it yet," Dean tells him, pushing open the door. "You have to help me put up everything."

Dean puts the chicken in a pot of water and sets it to boil while Sam starts emptying the numerous grocery bags piled near the front door. He's sitting Indian style, stacking canned goods like pyramids on one side while sorting hunting supplies on the other.

"What are you gonna do with the chicken?" Sam asks, his excitement evident in the dimpled grin. Dean doesn't answer him, but reaches into one of the bags instead and holds up a small bottle of generic Bar-B-Q sauce.

Sam's eyes light up much like Jacob's had minutes before.

"I got you something," Dean says as he begins searching the remaining bags. "You can't tell dad though. We didn't really have the money." When Dean pulls out an economy sized bag of snicker bite sized candy bars, Sam's eyes look like they might actually pop out of their sockets.

"You do realize you're awesome, right?" Sam asks as Dean hands him two of the candy bars.

"Duh, Haven't I been tellin' you that all along?" Dean takes one of the candy bars and sticks it in his mouth whole. Every now and then, they get to have candy. Either because Dean steals it, or John's managed to get another credit card. But in between cards when they have to rely on cash, Sam and Dean know not to ask for anything that's not needed.

"Help me put all this crap up so you can do your homework," Dean orders, standing to hide the candy in their room.

They put away the food, shampoo, and soap and Sam sits down to work on his vocabulary and math. When the chicken finishes cooking, Dean starts to de-bone it while he quizzes Sam on his spelling words, promising another piece of candy if he gets them all correct.

Sam ends up missing two, but Dean still gives him one of the snickers, taking another for himself.

Once all of the chicken bones are cleaned and placed in the fridge, Dean spreads the sauce over the meat and he and Sam dig in, smearing as much as they can on pieces of bread and enjoying the sickenly full feelings their stomachs take on after three sandwiches each.

"When's Dad coming home?" Sam asks while he washes the chicken pot, letting the hot water run over his hands as the soap blends with the grease.

Dean puts away the rest of the chicken, sticking it in the fridge beneath the bones. "He said before morning, and before you even ask, no, you may not stay up and wait for him."

"I wasn't gonna ask," Sam says indignantly. He flicks his fingers towards Dean, covering his brother with droplets of soapy water.

"Watch it, Runt or you won't eat again for a week," Dean threatens, failing to back up the words with any menace due to the smile on his face. Good food and a happy brother tend to be good reasons to smile.

"I saw all those Vienna sausages. I might not want to eat."

"Aren't you a little young to be such a smart ass?" Dean wipes off the table, spinning the towel around so he can pop it against the back of his brother's legs. Sam laughs as he runs out of the way, letting the cleaned pot fall in the sink.

They end up falling asleep on opposite ends of the couch, using an old quilt they usually keep in the back of the car for warmth.

It's almost four in the morning when Dean's awoken by the sound of movement outside. He quickly looks to Sam, who had stolen most of the quilt at some point in the night. Seeing that his brother's still asleep, Dean climbs off the couch and starts walking towards the door to see if it's their dad.

A shadow passing behind the sheet covered window stops Dean in his tracks. It had only been for a second, but Dean knows the shadow had not belonged to his father; it was too small and too fast to be John.

Dean turns and picks up his brother, biting his lip to keep from crying out at the protesting in his ribs. Sam barely even stirs as Dean lays him on the bed, pulling the cover up to his chin before reaching under the pillow for the spare gun.

Back in the living room, Dean stands in front of the door, one hand resting on the doorknob, thumb poised to unlock it the moment he gets his nerves under control.

He grips the gun tighter in his other hand as he wriggles his toes against the bristly texture of the welcome mat. When the familiar sound of the Impala's engine can be heard in the distance, Dean sighs and rests his forehead against the door in relief.

He waits until he hears the tires running over the gravel immediately outside and he can see the headlights illuminating the room through the windows before he unlocks the door and pulls it open.

John takes one look at his son standing in the doorframe, gun in hand before he's reaching for his own gun tucked away in the waistband of his pants. "Dean, what's wrong?"

"I saw something. It was too fast to—"

"Get inside with Sam. Lock the door and don't open it until you know it's me." John doesn't wait for Dean to respond before he's walking around the back of the trailer, he's depending on Dean to do as he's told.

Dean locks the door, and checks the gun to make sure the safety's off. He walks back to the bedroom, cracking the door so he can keep one eye on his brother and an ear out for their dad.

As the minutes slowly tick by, Dean starts to worry. The first five minutes aren't a problem, there's a lot of places something could hide. After ten minutes, Dean reminds himself that his dad likes to be thorough. _Don't bother doing something if you're only gonna do it half-assed. _But after fifteen minutes, Dean's starting to consider going outside.

A familiar rhythmic knock on the front door has Dean abandoning his post near the bedroom to quickly let his dad in.

"Did you see anything?" Dean asks before John can even get inside. Dean quickly locks the door, moving to the kitchen to get some salt for a salt line, despite the repelling symbol beneath the mat.

"Nothing," his dad tells him, and Dean feels grateful when John doesn't question whether or not he could have been seeing things. Instead, John takes the canister of salt from his son and lays the line his self. "Whatever was there is gone now. Where's your brother?"

"Bed."

"Good, you should join him." John hands Dean the salt and squeezes his shoulder before making his way to the trailer's other bedroom.

Dean sees his dad run his hand over the back of his neck before he shuts the door, leaving Dean alone in the darkened living room.

Dean brings the salt with him. He puts the gun back under his pillow and proceeds to pour a circle of salt around the bed, stretching his arm to lay it along the wall beneath the headboard.

He lies back down next to his brother, but he doesn't fall asleep again. Instead, he alternates between watching Sam breathe and keeping an eye on the window for any more shadows.


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, I lied. Turns out I'm really impatient, so I'm just gonna go ahead and post all six parts at once. (I'd still like feedback on each part if anyone's willing to give it).**

* * *

The remainder of the school week goes by in an ultimately boring fashion. John decides to leave Dean at home, making sure someone keeps an eye on the house and is there when Sammy gets home from school. Dean falls into an unremarkable routine. Wake up at six, get Sammy on the bus before going back to sleep until ten. Wake up again, find something to do until Sammy gets home. Ultimately, unremarkable.

By the time the weekend comes, Dean's actually looking forward to going back to school, even if it's only to have something to do, because God knows he isn't looking forward to seeing the people. Well, maybe Becky.

Friday afternoon, Dean waits for Sam at the bus stop, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Even though he's hasn't had to go to school since Tuesday, the weekend excitement is contagious. For most kids it's two days of sleeping in, no homework, and no worries aside from finding a way to keep yourself entertained. For the Winchesters, it's a little different.

While no school and no homework definitely top the lists of reasons Dean loves the weekends, they are nowhere near the only two things on said list. Weekends usually are spent helping their dad or working on their training, learning the skills necessary to keep each other alive while on a job.

Dean looks forward to the training. Ever since Sam turned seven and their father deemed him big enough to learn hand-to-hand fighting techniques, he and Dean have been partnered up—it's almost like being given permission to rough house.

Then there's the target practice, knife handling, and sword fighting. Well, it's more like a machete, but Dean feels like a freaking Jedi when he swings the thing at the empty cans his dad tosses at him. Dean appreciates the fact that John hasn't said anything about him or Sammy making light saber sounds when wielding the machetes.

While Dean isn't entirely certain what his Dad has planned for the weekend, if he'll even be home at all, he feels a small sense of excitement begin to build when the school bus pulls in front of the trailer park's entrance.

Sam's the first off the bus, and he quickly sets the pace for the walk back to their borrowed home. While Sam might not be too thrilled about the reasons behind their usual weekend activities, he still appreciates the opportunity to escape the monotony of being stuck in a motel room or, in the present case, a barely furnished trailer. At least motel's come with cable.

Sam prefers training when it's only he and his brother. His dad sets expectations, and with expectations comes the potential for failure. While Dean works hard to make sure that Sam understands what they're supposed to be learning, there isn't as much pressure. Mostly because Sam knows Dean will be patient until he gets it right.

Dean opens the windows once they're inside. The rain finally stopped and there's a nice breeze that puts the small box fans cooling their trailer to shame. He's careful not to break the salt lines as he moves the makeshift curtains out of the way.

Sam pulls the card-table to the wall and pushes the two chairs towards the kitchen counter, opening up a space big enough for he and his brother to wrestle. "Can you even do this? What about your bruises?" Sam asks, remembering the dark, shoe shaped marks covering his brother's side.

"I'm fine. You're not backing out of this Sammy," Dean tells him as he takes off his socks and shoes, stretching his back before turning to face his brother. Sam's small for his age, always has been. Even though he still has his baby fat, he's in pretty good shape for a fourth grader.

Dean, however, is about five and a half feet tall, well almost. If he stretches his back and elongates his neck, he registers about five foot four inches, but his dad says he's still got some growing to do. He's lost all his baby fat, lean muscle taking its place along his lanky frame.

As Sam sits down to remove his own shoes, Dean remembers to take into account the size difference between him and his brother. He wants Sam to learn to fight, he just doesn't want it to happen by him getting hurt.

"Hurry up, dude. We're wasting daylight here."

"No we're not. We've got all night and you know it." Sam grins up at his brother as he hurriedly stands to his feet despite his assurance that there's no need to rush. He's excited and he's ready to start. Stepping a few feet from his brother, Sam bends his knees and takes up a fighting stance.

Dean keeps his own stance relaxed, watching his brother for any sign that he's about to attack. "Alright, remember what dad said. The best attack is a sudden one, but it still needs to be thought out." Dean watches as Sam's eyes take in their cleared away surroundings. He can almost hear the gears grinding in his brother's head, constantly thinking.

Dean's a little embarrassed when his brother manages to get the first move in. One minute Sammy's eyes are looking at the front door and the next he's flying at Dean, his small arms wrapping around his brother's legs and bringing him down. All embarrassment is forgotten when pride takes over. Sam had learned that move from watching Dean take down their dad in a separate training session.

Sam smiles as he climbs on his brother, attempting to pin the larger boy down. Dean just smiles back as he brings his leg up and pushes his brother off him, switching positions and pinning Sammy's shoulders to the ground.

"Come on, Sammy. You can do better then that." Dean regrets saying it the moment he sees that playful smirk morph into one of pure mischief. Sam lifts one of his hands and starts to tickle his brother's stomach.

Dean jumps up, eager to get away from the unwelcome assault. "NO TICKLING! You know the rules."

"That's one of _your_ rules. It doesn't count," Sam defends as he raises his head and props himself up on one elbow.

"Does, too." Dean's never liked being tickled. He hates the feeling and he's never been able to make his brother understand that just because he's laughing doesn't mean he's having fun. Sam, on the other hand, spent ages four through six trying to provoke tickling matches.

"Nuh-uh," Sam retorts, pulling from his ever-growing comeback arsenal.

"Uh-huh."

"Nuh-uh."

"Uh-huh."

"Nuh-uh."

"Dude!" Dean points a finger at Sam. "Quick freakin' 'nuh-uh-ing' my 'uh-huh's."

Sam rolls his eyes as he stands and adjusts his shirt. "Still doesn't count."

It's Dean's turn to morph his smile as he takes a tentative step towards the little boy looking at him defiantly. "Is that so?"

"Yep," Sam answers confidently. It's the answer Dean's looking for, the one he had expected as he takes another small step forward.

"So it's not against the rules because I said it was?" Another step closer.

"That's right." Sam puts his guard up as he notices the ever-closing distance between him and Dean.

"Sooo…" Dean drags the word out slowly, almost as though he's trying to think of what he wants to say next. "That means…that I shouldn't get in trouble then."

Sam doesn't have time to react as Dean throws his arm out, capturing Sam around the shoulders as he brings his other arm up and begins tickling Sam's ribcage. The laugh that erupts from Sam is one of pure joy. It's one of those that only kids can do, loud and high, almost like a bell.

Dean doesn't let up when he hears Sam struggling to breath between choking laughs. It isn't until Sam starts to beg, warning Dean that he's about to loose control of his bladder that Dean lets him go, watching as Sam runs breathlessly to the bathroom.

Two minutes later, Sam's back in the game, content to follow the no tickling rule as he and Dean continue to spar until their stomachs start to growl. Dean boils a box of spaghetti noodles and melts a stick of butter over them, seasoning them with garlic and pepper. Sam doesn't complain and manages to put away two plate-fulls, butter grease shining on his chin.

Stomachs full, the boys entertain themselves playing card games until almost midnight. When it becomes apparent that John isn't going to come home anytime soon, Dean makes sure all the windows are locked and the salt lines set before climbing into bed, pushing aside his brother's prone form in order to have any room.

Saturday morning starts early. John wakes Dean up before the alarm clock rings, letting him know he wants to hit the road before six. Dean just growls into his pillow, before pushing his brother's arm out of his personal space.

Dean doesn't bother trying to wake Sam up until after he's had first go at the bathroom. Dean's been sharing a single bathroom with his dad and brother for as long as he can remember, and he's fully aware of the benefits of getting first dibs. Usually, he can pull the 'I'm the oldest' card and beat his brother, but Sam's a quick learner and has a tendency to use his small size and extra energy to move fast.

"Come on, Sammy. Up and at 'em." Dean can see the change in Sam's breathing, alerting him that his brother's awake. However, Dean is less than pleased when Sam continues to keep his eyes closed, feigning sleep.

Grabbing a pillow, Dean raises it above his head before saying in a falsely sweet voice, "Sammy, I know you can hear me. It's time to wake up." When Sam doesn't move a muscle, Dean brings the pillow down hard on his brother's chest, getting the reaction he wants.

"Stop it, jerk." Sam's voice is tired and muffled from the mattress as he rolls onto his stomach, attempting to burrow deeper into the bed. Dean pulls the blankets back, earning another muffled comment that doesn't leave Dean feeling the brotherly love.

Sam finally starts to wake up when Dean grabs him by the ankle and starts to pull him off the bed, destroying the salt line he had made the night before as he drags a furious nine year old towards the bedroom door.

"Boys!" John's rough voice causes Sam to stop squirming and Dean to drop his brother's leg.

"Sorry," Dean yells towards the door before turning back to his brother who's busying himself with shaking salt from his sleep shirt. "Hurry up, squirt. We gotta move."

"Where we goin'?" Sam asks as he roughly pushes past Dean, making sure to ram is shoulder into Dean's side.

"Don't know yet. Dad said to get dressed." Dean stops long enough to make sure his brother's getting ready before he starts getting dressed himself.

Twenty minutes later, Sam and Dean are both dressed and in the car. It doesn't take long for Dean to realize that they're heading back to Goodsprings, back to the town that first caught their dad's attention over two months ago.

The usual course of action includes John finding a case that peaks his interest, and if that case happens to be in a town with a public school, John and the boys load up and enroll. Before Sam discovered that monsters are real, Dean usually stayed at home, studying his father's notes or practicing throwing knifes while making sure his kid brother didn't stick something sharp in a light socket.

After Sam learned the big secret, the usual after school routine shifted to include Dean helping him improve his aim and teaching him the proper way to pronounce the Latin scripts their dad had given them to study.

Once the original job's finished, John looks for jobs within driving distance, sometimes leaving home for days at a time in order to get to where he needs to be. He doesn't like leaving the boys behind, but it's the only way to keep the truant officers off his back—a lesson he learned when Dean was in first grade.

As soon as it becomes obvious that there isn't anymore jobs within a three state area, John usually tries to work a few odd jobs for a while in order to earn cash, attempting to give the boys a few more weeks, if not months in one school.

That's the usual drill, the one that they've followed since John learned the truth about how Mary died. Now, as they drive past the large wooden sign, welcoming drivers to Goodsprings, a small town with a big spirit, Dean tries not to laugh at the truth of the sign's words-well if it _is_ a spirit.

Goodsprings is the first town they've left without finishing the job first, and Dean feels guilty. He had been stupid and weak when he accepted the neighborhood's up and coming dealer's offer. Two little pink pills. Dean didn't know what they were, didn't even ask. He just let the guy dump them in his palm and started to walk back to the motel.

He thought about throwing them away. It's not that he was completely anti-drug, he just wasn't comfortable taking something if he didn't know what it would do to him. Marijuana was one thing, but little pink pills with a weird symbol etched on the front was a little out of his league.

He was in the process of talking himself out of it when he found himself downwind from the burger place on the corner. They cook their meat over an open flame and near lunchtime, the whole neighborhood smells like a Bar-B-Q.

The fact that they had been low on funds and paying rent with their last credit card meant that Dean hadn't eaten a burger in almost two months.

When Dean felt the stabs of hunger accompanying a watering mouth, he didn't even think twice about popping the pills in his mouth, dry swallowing them as he took the long way around in order to avoid walking by the diner and the reminder of how sucky things were at the moment. Next thing he had been aware of was Sam shaking his shoulder begging him to wake up.

Entering town, they drive past the same diner and all the guilt Dean was feeling is pushed aside as that sense of embarrassment that usually accompanies failure settles its way into Dean's chest. As their dad pulls the car into an available parking spot along the street, Dean notices a small memorial near one of the telephone polls.

Candles, homemade posters, and stuffed animals mark the spot where at least two people died according to the pictures settled between the candles. When Dean turns to look at his father, he sees for the first time that John's wearing a button up shirt and tie beneath his jean jacket.

John climbs out of the car and tosses his jacket into the back seat before asking Sam to hand him the suit jacket that Dean hadn't noticed before.

"There was another accident. I'm going to talk to one of the survivors, you two stay in town and stay out of trouble."

"Yes, sir." Dean and Sam answer in sync, having fallen into that pattern almost immediately after Sam learned to talk.

Dean tries his best to hide his surprise when his dad climbs back in and tosses a twenty on the dash. He had been under the impression that they were completely broke. "Get you and your brother something to eat, see if you can ask the people inside if they saw anything." John gestures to the small memorial, easily seen from the diner's large, glass windows.

"Yes, sir." Dean grabs the money and exits the car, letting his dad drive off before following his brother onto the sidewalk towards the diner and the promise of red meat.

They get a booth near the window, the memorial within sight as they wait for the waitress to come to their table. Dean finally feels his luck starting to change when Rosaline, who has to be close to sixty walks up to their table. He's come to learn that if he tries hard, he can pull off that poor, lost, little boy look that older women just eat up. His brother doesn't even have to try. Sam's big eyes and baby fat cheeks combined with his small stature and shaggy hair scream _take care of me_ to almost every woman they come across over the age of twenty-five.

Dean sees Rosaline try to school her features when she gets a look at the lingering bruises focused around his nose and beneath his eyes. They've faded, leaving behind tinges of blue, green, and yellow. She doesn't bother pulling out her notepad as she approaches the table, placing a coloring sheet and crayons in front of Sam.

Dean forces himself not to laugh and silently compliments his brother on not rolling his eyes. Sam hasn't colored since first grade, but he knows when to play along, nine-year-old pride be damned.

John's used the boys 'cuteness' to his benefit on more than one occasion, getting them to loosen up possible witnesses or even going so far as to have Dean question other kids on a playground. Sam may hate it, but he'd rather talk to people than spend all night in a cemetery holding a flashlight while his dad and brother dig a grave.

Two weeks to the day after convincing Dean to admit the truth of what their father did, Sam found himself in a cemetery witnessing his very first salt and burn. There was no more waiting in a salt-encircled car. Sam's part of the team, helping out where he can, learning to do what he can't.

So as Rosaline smiles her maternal smile, and rests a well-manicured hand on one hip, Sam does what he can and gladly takes the crayon, putting forth an effort to show as much enthusiasm as a five year old as he begins tracing the outline of Donald Duck.

"Hey, sweethearts. What can I get you to drink?"

Sam looks to Dean and asks, "Chocolate milk?"

"Do you have chocolate milk?" Dean asks Rosaline, making sure to keep his voice soft and not give off the vibe of a 'punk in training', a description once used by a science teacher after Dean failed to show the appropriate amount of regret for coming to class fifteen minutes late.

"We sure do. Would you like a glass too?"

"No ma'am. Do you have root beer?" He smiles and tries to imitate the look of hopefulness his brother had given when asking for chocolate milk.

"One root beer and chocolate milk coming up." She leaves the table, grabbing a stack of dirty plates from the booth behind them before heading to the kitchen.

"What can we get?" Sam asks as he begins reading the menu. "Are we gonna have to share?"

"Nope. If we stick to burgers, I think we'll be good." Dean begins looking through the prices, totaling the cost in his head as he tries to think of a way to ask Rosaline about the latest car accident.

"Are your parents going to be joining you?" Rosaline sets the drinks down in front of the boys, reaching into her apron for the pad and pen.

"No ma'am, it's just us." Dean smiles again, keeping the tone light and respectful. Rosaline looks like the kind of woman that won't put up with anything less. She looks them over again, almost as though she's double-checking her original assessment that the boys are harmless.

She seems convinced after watching Sam take a large sip from his glass, sighing and smacking his lips while he smiles from behind a chocolate mustache. Dean orders two cheeseburgers, despite the early hour and makes sure to say 'thank you' when she leaves.

"You didn't ask her about the accident," Sam points out as he opens his straw and proceeds to sip at the remainder of his milk.

"All in due time, little brother." Dean knows that Waitress Rosaline isn't likely to give any gory details to a couple of kids. As much as Dean hates to admit it, he is only thirteen, and most people still see him as a kid, despite the experiences he's already lived through. Right now, his and Sam's job is to find out who knows something, if anything. Their dad can get the juicy details.

"Chicken, cheeseburgers, and chocolate milk all in the same week," Sam sucks up the last bit of milk from his straw, producing a gurgling sound that grates on Dean's nerves. Seeing his brother's content, Dean decides not to address the annoying gurgling.

"If you look at it that way, then yeah, this week rocked." Dean can't help thinking of the fact that he got in a fight, suspected of dealing drugs, and suspended from school. Those things tend to conflict with chicken and chocolate milk. "Next week's gonna suck though. I've got detention everyday."

"That's what you get for fighting." Dean doesn't like the know-it-all tone Sam uses.

"They started it." That's the truth, Dean hadn't gone looking for a fight. Hell, he even tried to walk away before causing any trouble, but he couldn't very well let the guy get away with busting his nose.

"Miss Margie says those boys that beat you up are thugs." Sam tilts his glass in an attempt to get gravity to do his bidding and bring the last bit of chocolate syrup to him.

"Okay, one," Dean holds up a finger, preparing to count off the reasons he doesn't like his brother's last statement. "They didn't beat me up. They started the fight, but they didn't beat me up. I totally kicked their asses. And two, why the hell are you gossiping with the bus driver about my business?"

"You talk with her all the time!" Sam says indignantly, using his finger to get to the stubborn syrup stuck to the bottom of the glass. "Besides, it wasn't just her. The whole bus was talking 'bout your fight."

_Great_, Dean thinks to himself. The last thing he wanted was to be the topic on everyone's mind. He likes the idea of going to school and _not_ sticking out. It usually only leads to trouble. Case in point: his upcoming week of detention.

Dean notices Rosaline walking out of the kitchen with another glass of chocolate milk. Making a point to look as though he had been straining to see the memorial out the window, he waits until she's within hearing distance before turning to Sam and saying, "I don't know. I think it's like a memorial or something."

Sam looks up and is only confused for a few seconds. As soon as Rosaline sits his new glass of milk down, he catches up to his brother's plan, asking in a secretive whisper, "Do you think someone died there?"

"Are you boys talking about that?" Rosaline picks up Sam's empty glass and points out the window towards the collection of candles and cards.

"Yes, ma'am. What is it?" Dean holds his breath, hoping she'll answer his brother's question. Sam's looking up at her, eyes big and curious, and Dean knows Sammy's got it in the bag.

"Your brother was right, dear." She smiles that maternal smile and softens her eyes, and Dean recognizes that look. It's the one grown-ups use when they're about to tell kids something sad that they think they won't be able to truly handle or understand. "It _is_ a memorial. There was an accident there yesterday. Saw the whole thing myself."

"What caused it?" Dean steps in, feeling as though his brother's done more than enough.

"No idea. That's the thing. Driver must not have been paying attention is all I can figure. One minute, she's driving by and the next she's on the sidewalk, wrapped around the telephone pole. Two of the people died, a third's in the hospital."

Okay, so maybe Dean was wrong. Rosaline was more than willing to give a couple of kids the juicy details. At least to him anyway, because when she speaks, she looks at him, almost as though if by not looking at Sam, he won't be able to hear her. As she leans forward to continue in a hushed tone, Dean leans forward, too, more than happy to hear what she has to say.

"You didn't hear this from me, but I heard that the poor girl might have done it on purpose."

"Wrecked the car?" Dean asks in the same hushed tone she had used. Rosaline raises her eyebrows and nods her head yes.

"It's a shame really. They were so young. You boys take that as a lesson. The road's a dangerous place. Don't go fooling around while driving, it'll get someone killed."

Rosaline smiles that grown-up smile again, and moves to check on another table.

"Do you think she's right? Do you think the driver lady did it on purpose? Can a ghost make you do that?" Dean just shakes his head at Sam's long list of questions. How's he supposed to know? Their dad hasn't exactly offered up a lot of information about this case, which in truth doesn't surprise Dean. He's come to learn that John likes to keep details to himself, only choosing to share when he knows it all. Need to know. Just because Dean _wants _to know doesn't mean that he _needs _to know—at least that's how John Winchester sees it. But Dean trusts him.

"We'll tell dad and see what he says." The conversation officially comes to an end when Rosaline comes out with two cheeseburgers and a free plate of fries. "On the house," she tells them, earning two identical heartfelt 'thank yous' and big smiles.

When Rosaline lays the check on the table, Dean notices that, not only did she give them free fries, but she also didn't charge them for their drinks. Dean leaves the whole twenty on the table, covering their two burgers and a rather nice tip. It only seems fair.

"Where do you think Dad is?" Sam's looking up and down the street as though he expects to see the Impala rounding the corner any second.

"He'll probably be awhile, Sammy. Come on," Dean grabs his brother around the elbow and pushes him towards the other side of the street. They walk the short distance to the memorial in order to get an up close look at the cards and pictures.

Dean stares at the smiling girl looking up at him from the metal frame. She looks familiar, but Dean can't place her. He bends down, studying the dark brown eyes and light hair. Suddenly, recognition hits, bringing worry with it. It's the moody cashier from the grocery store in New Hope. Only here, she's smiling and looking a lot less angry.

"Dean, you okay?" Sam bends down next to his brother, looking back and forth between Dean's frown and the neon orange poster reading "We Love You" in glittered lettering.

"I've met her before."

Dean and Sam spend the next hour walking around town, sticking to the main street so they can wait for their father while also taking great care not to get any closer than three blocks from Anderson Street-the favorite hangout for the dealer who sold Dean the meds to help John after cracking his collarbone, and the same one who gave Dean the little pink pills.

"Are you sure it's the same girl?" Sam asks for the fifth time since Dean had identified the cashier in the photo. When Dean responds with an annoyed growl and an exasperated glare, Sam holds up his hands in defense. "I'm just sayin', you said she looked different. It could be a different girl."

"It's the same one, Sam." Dean had already pointed out that in all likelihood, it's just a coincidence. Both towns are small and only an hour apart. The odds of Dean having run into at least one of the many victims weren't that bad. "Just drop it 'til Dad gets here."

Sensing his brother's draining patience, Sam bites his bottom lip to keep from asking where Dean thinks Dad is or when he's supposed to meet them. He's already asked once and Dean didn't know then, either.

Dean walks a little ways down from the restaurant, looking for a dry patch of sidewalk. There's an awning next to an empty storefront, and Dean takes advantage of it, plopping down right on the ground, using the building to lean back and rest his head. Sam sits down next to him, stretching his legs out in front as he bangs the toes of his shoes together.

They sit in silence, watching as cars continue to go by, each keeping an eye out for the one their waiting on. It's not raining, but the slight overcast and light breeze make it a little chilly, and Dean wishes he had brought his other jacket. He closes his eyes and crosses his arms in order to block them from the cold.

He didn't mean to fall asleep. One minute, he's looking down the street for their dad, and the next he feels Sam jumping up, wiping away dirt from the seat of his pants. Dean follows his brother's gaze, seeing the outline of the Impala pull into the same parking space it had earlier when dropping them off. John waves from the driver's seat, ushering them to hurry up.

Dean hears it before he sees it. The unmistakable sound of a tire speeding over a bump, the bottom of a car scraping against the sidewalk as it jumps the curb. As Dean turns, he sees the driver staring straight ahead, smile in place as he continues to accelerate towards the empty storefront and the two boys standing in front.

Dean doesn't even think, his body just acts. Dean reaches out and grabs his brother's arm, swinging Sam around and pulling his body towards him as he tries to push them both out of the way. Dean falls back, his brother landing on top of him as they land in the street, water splashing around them from a shallow puddle.

Dean doesn't hear the screams or the sounds of falling glass as the car barrels through the storefront's large, glass windows. He doesn't hear the sound of feet running towards him or his father yelling his name. All he hears is his brother's harsh breathing and something akin to an attempt to muffle a sob. He tries to look at Sammy's face, but the little boy has it buried in Dean's chest.

Before Dean has a chance to react, his father is by his side, carefully lifting Sam and studying his face.

"Sammy, what's wrong? Where are you hurt?"

Dean lifts his head, ignoring the throbbing pain at the base of his skull. "He's hurt?" He had tried to stop it, tried to get Sam out of the way before anything happened to him, he had even tried to buffer his fall.

There's no muffling the cry of pain when John reaches for the arm Sam is cradling against his chest. Keeping his eyes focused on his youngest's arm in order to determine whether or not it's broken, John calls out to his oldest, wanting to make sure he's okay.

"Dean, you good?"

"Yes, sir." John just nods his head, knowing he'll have to double-check Dean's assessment—the boy's always had a crude understanding of 'fine' when it comes to personal injuries.

"I think it's broken, Sam." John let's Sam take back his arm, holding it close to his side. Dean stays on the ground, too shocked at what just happened, what almost happened to bother standing up. The increased heart rate and pounding in his head aren't much of an encouragement.

Dean still has his eyes focused on his brother when their dad turns his attention to him. John starts running his hand over Dean's head, wincing in sympathy when he feels the large bump already forming at the back.

The sounds of approaching sirens register in Dean's mind, forcing his sense of awareness outside of the two people huddled beside him. For the first time, Dean notices the large crowd of people gathered around the car, several onlookers just standing there, staring, not even bothering to offer to help, not that they want it, but Dean's almost certain it's polite to at least offer.

Turning to look at the seriously pissed off face his father's making, Dean doesn't blame the onlookers for keeping their distance. "Quit moving, Dean. Just lay down until the damn medics look at you." It's an order, and despite the harsh tone, Dean can tell the anger isn't directed at him. Judging by the way his father keeps glancing towards the tail lights of the car sticking out of the broken store, Dean assumes all of John Winchester's anger is focused on whomever was driving that car.

"Is Sam okay?" Dean asks, already having heard is father's assessment, but needing to ask anyway.

"Yeah, I think you broke his arm pulling him down." John's trying to look at Dean's eyes, gauge how hard his son hit his head when he sees the sudden shift from worry to complete devastation in the green depths. "Son?"

"I broke his arm?" Dean looks at his father, hoping he heard him wrong. John realizes his mistake about three seconds too late. He isn't blaming Dean, just merely pointing out the facts. But he should have known better than to word it that way.

"It wasn't your fault. It happened when we fell." Sam tries to keep his voice from shaking. He's never broken a bone before and it hurts worse than his father and brother let on. He had been busy focusing on his breathing, trying so hard not to throw up the burger he had eaten an hour earlier that he was only half listening to his father and brother.

However, the sound of his brother's horrified whisper quickly pulls him from the pain radiating through his forearm.

Dean turns disbelieving eyes towards his brother. Sam's not sobbing like most nine year olds would after breaking an arm, but Dean can still see evidence of tears streaking down his brother's face. He broke his brother's arm.

"Sam, I broke your freakin' arm," Dean yells angrily, hating that his brother's missing the point.

"To stop us getting squished by a freakin' car." Sam raises his voice, unintentionally mirroring his brother's anger. They always do that. Things start out slow, and the moment emotions get high, anger takes over. It's a Winchester thing. It has to be, because Sam's never seen anyone else outside of television shows use screaming as a mechanism to deal with sadness the way his brother and dad do.

"Hey!" John adds his gruff voice to the mix, stopping the boys from the inevitable ping-pong match of who's right and who's wrong. It's a sign of how well disciplined the boys are when neither one says anything else until the paramedics start asking them questions.

Dean doesn't answer the nice lady's questions until he's certain that her partner's taking care of Sam. Only after he's satisfied does he tell her his name, how many fingers she's holding up, and that on a scale of one to ten, his head's pounding out a solid seven.

John doesn't ride in the ambulance with them, but follows behind in the Impala with a promise to talk to the officers after he makes certain his boys are okay. He had been sitting in the car, witness to the whole thing and he still doesn't know what happened. One minute the station wagon's driving towards him and the next it's steering up onto the sidewalk, taking a shortcut to his kids. _His _kids.

There's a lot of dangerous things out there, a lot of ways for his boys to get hurt. He should know, he exposes them to it all the time. But of all the things his boys have to worry about, standing on a fucking sidewalk shouldn't be one of them.

He's immediately brought back to a large open room, metal sinks lining the walls. Sam's sitting Indian style on one of the few exam tables, his arm being cleaned by a small nurse who only looks a few years older than Dean. John can already see the hand shaped bruising on his son's arm, and is thankful for once that they had witnesses to this injury. The last thing he needs is to worry about a visit from Child's Services.

"Hey, kiddo. How you doin'?" When Sam turns to look at his dad, John can tell they had given him something for the pain.

"I'm getting a cast." Most fourth grade boys would probably be excited by that, but John detects a sense of fear in those few words.

"That's pretty standard when you break your arm, Bud." John frowns when Sam starts shaking his head. "Sam, you don't really have a choice."

"Dean'll get me back." The too-young nurse looks up questioningly, wondering if Sam's reasoning for not wanting a cast makes any more sense to John than it does her. John dips his head, trying not to let his son see him laugh.

The first time John brought Dean on a hunt, the boy had tripped down the stairs trying to outrun a spirit's attempts to use his head for target practice. He ended up having his ankle wrapped in a cast. Nice and white and ready for six year old Sammy's Crayola non-washable markers.

Dean had woken from his painkiller-induced nap to find various Disney princesses roughly drawn with all the technique a first grader could muster. Sam's only saving grace was that John had intervened and taken Dean's crutches, giving his youngest a much-needed head start.

He isn't going to admit it out loud, but Sam kind of deserves whatever payback Dean can create, and Dean's not that bad an artist.

Sam looks distraught, more on the verge of tears at the prospect of his brother extracting revenge for a three-year-old crime than he is over actually breaking his arm. "He's gonna draw all over it. And it'll look stupid." The too-young nurse smiles as she starts to catch on.

"We can cover it in a black wrap if you want." Sam seems to relax after he thinks it over, seeming to accept the nurse's offer to solve his dilemma.

An older man in scrubs comes in and explains the details of the break, mostly just confirming what John already knew. "A spiral fracture, most likely caused when your other son pulled him out of the way." John knows better than to share the confirmation with Dean.

Leaving Sam with the young hospital employees in order to have his cast put on, John begins his search for his other child, the one he's seriously hoping has nothing more than an impressive goose-egg to show for his most recent near-death experience.

Dean's propped up on a gurney, a blue ice pack held against the back of his head and a serious scowl marring his face. Apparently, thirteen year olds do not appreciate being grouped in with the little kids.

Evidence of a brightly colored, cartoon covered hospital gown is lying on the floor next to the gurney. The nurse outside had been kind enough to explain that Dean had to change into the gown so the doctors could perform an MRI. She also mentioned that Dean had been less than happy about the attire and insisted on changing back into his wet, dirty clothes as soon as the MRI was finished.

"He's very…_opinionated_…about things, isn't he?" The nurse had said before pointing to the curtained area hiding his son. John had to agree. Less than an hour with his son and the woman's already got him pegged.

"Sam's fine, before you even ask." John doesn't waste any time letting Dean know about his brother. They both know it would be the first words out of Dean's mouth. John's simply saving him the trouble.

"I still broke his arm." Dean leans his head against the pillows, letting them hold the ice pack for him as he drops his arms across his stomach.

"You saved his life. End of story, because I'd much rather have a busted up kid over a dead one." John remembers the complete feeling of helplessness at seeing that car change directions and head for his boys. He doesn't want to feel that again.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, focusing all his attention on a mystery stain on the leg of his jeans. John watches his son for a moment before asking, "You remember when Sam drew all over your first cast?"

First, Dean's face shows confusion, then anger as he remembers. He starts to smile when realization kicks in. Payback.

John once again tries not to laugh when he sees his son smile, knowing that there will only be disappointment when Dean sees the black cast his brother's currently having put on.

"Dad!" John jumps at Dean's sudden exclamation. Dean sits up, letting the ice pack fall behind him as he reaches a hand towards his father's arm. "I almost forgot."

Dean tells his father about Waitress Rosaline's account of the accident and her theory that the driver had done it on purpose, as well as the fact that Dean had met the driver before. John takes it all in, listening quietly, somewhat surprised that his two sons had managed to find out more than he had. All he had managed to find out were the victims' names and cause of deaths.

The doctor comes soon afterwards, explaining that Dean will be fine. Nothing more than a serious headache waiting for him. Having gotten his sons out of the way, John heads out to find out about the man who had nearly killed them. Needing to know what the doctors and police know—or what they think they know. No self respecting doctor his going to say, "Gee, I think the man might have been possessed."

No, they'll blame it on a seizure or an allergic reaction. Something _logical_ in the normal world. Forty-five minutes later, John walks back into Dean's curtained room to find Sam sitting on the foot of the bed, smiling smugly as he proudly displays his black encased cast. Dean just stares at his brother, obviously disappointed at the turn of events.

"You boys ready to go?" The hurried scuffling to get off the gurney is all the answer John needs.


	4. Chapter 4

Monday morning is back to school. Dean wakes up late, forcing him and Sam to run to the bus stop, managing to arrive just in time.

"Do you boys even know how to stay out of trouble?" Miss Margie asks upon seeing Sam's new cast.

They take their usual seats, Dean plopping down near the aisle, letting his head fall back against the bus's high-backed seats only to regret it the moment a dull pain reminds him of the tender knot from the fall. "You're not riding the bus home are you?" Sam asks, remembering the week's worth of detention his brother had been rewarded.

"No, I'm not. Remember, you're to go straight home after getting off the bus," Dean reminds him, earning an over exaggerated eye-roll.

"Dude, you do realize I'm not four, right? You don't have to keep reminding me every five minutes."

"Then quit asking the same questions over and over, because all it does is give me the impression that you have a crappy memory," Dean bites back. Another eye-roll, he _really _has to teach Sammy a better comeback.

The first two classes of the day go by without too much trouble. Dean struggles through the pop quiz in math, almost certainly failing after missing the better part of a week's worth of lessons. He even manages to stay awake the entire time during history. So far, so good.

Third period is the first sign that this week might not be any better than the last. He takes his usual seat next to Eric, the only reason Dean has a passing grade. Eric is a cool enough kid, just a little too eager to please. Normally, Dean would try to avoid kids like Eric, but seeing how Eric has the highest GPA in the eighth grade and is more than eager to share his homework with Dean, Dean's more than willing to make an exception.

"You're back," Eric says unnecessarily as Dean takes his seat at the lab table. Dean pulls out his notebook and looks at the blackboard for the opening assignment, answering Eric with a curt nod.

_List and identify the stages of photosynthesis, then explain why it is significant to us as humans._ Dean pulls a card from Sammy's book and rolls his eyes. Mr. Finnegan is always asking crap like that. _Why is it significant to know this stuff?_ Dean thinks to himself as he looks up photosynthesis in his book.

Two paragraphs in and he realizes he's in trouble. He hasn't absorbed anything he's just read. He doesn't care about how plants get their food, how they grow, or whatever it is he's supposed to be looking up. Looking at Eric, Dean sees that the guy's already got half a page of teeny-tiny writing. All Dean has is two lines and that's the definition of photosynthesis he had gotten from the back of the book.

A few minutes later, when Mr. Finnegan takes it up, he's less than impressed, showing his contempt by pointing out that being suspended is not an excuse for falling behind. Dean leaves science and head's to lunch with three times as much homework as the rest of the class. Mr. Finnegan had felt he needed it in order to catch up.

Dean doesn't even know what it is they're serving in the cafeteria, and he's actually content with the fact that he doesn't have enough money for a full lunch, having given two dollars worth of quarters to Sam. He buys a banana and a carton of milk and begins looking for a place to sit.

Becky Thompson is sitting at her usual spot, already digging into her purple lunchbox. Dean's sat at her table once before, it's how he learned her name. She had been nice, and he had instantly taken a liking to her.

This time though, she's a little less receptive. As soon as he sits down at the end of the table, two seats down, her and her friend immediately stop talking, both looking at him with the same look of disgust the now deceased cashier had leveled him with.

Dean immediately takes offense, not liking the way their stares cause his stomach to twist. "What?" he asks, generally curious as to why they would change their opinion of him since last talking to him.

"I thought you got expelled." Blonde friend asks, looking to Becky for confirmation.

"Just suspended," Dean corrects, shaking his milk before opening it.

"I didn't think they let druggies come back," Becky adds as she peels the crust off her sandwich.

Dean looks up from his milk carton, giving up on trying to push the two arrows together in order to get it open. "They probably don't," he says. "but I don't know what that has to do with me. I'm not a druggie."

"That's not what we heard," Blonde friend chimes in, and Dean really wishes she'd shut the hell up.

"You heard wrong." He says, fully aware his voice is betraying his growing anger.

Becky looks at him, offended that he would talk like that to her friend. "Well, it's not like you're gonna admit it," she says, squinting her eyes, perfecting the stuck up bitch glare.

"Whatever," Dean shakes his head and turns back to his stubborn milk carton, contemplating finding a pair of scissors and cutting the thing open. It's not like he's going to be able to change her mind anyway, so why bother trying.

"You're all the same," Becky whispers loud enough for him to hear. "All attitude and tough talk, not caring about anything that matters."

Dean slams the milk carton down, hating the fact that he had chosen to sit at her table. "You don't know anything about me." He says it through gritted teeth, the only way to keep his voice from rising.

Becky smirks and, picking up the remainder of her lunch, stands to leave, offering a quick, "Sure, I don't" before leaving him behind. Dean wants to scream out of frustration. He had liked Becky, _like_ liked her. He doesn't know if he's angrier at everything she had said or the fact that he almost,_ almost_ feels like crying because she even said it.

He's torn from having to decide when Isaac, Mr. Enigma, Hardwicke plops down in front of him. "I wouldn't bother messing with Becky and Tabitha. They're just a couple of prudes anyway." Isaac reaches into a brown paper bag and casually tosses Dean a bag of Frito chips.

Dean looks at him and then the Fritos, quirking an eyebrow questioningly. "I don't like that kind," Isaac says, pulling out what looks like a peanut butter sandwich with some white, fluffy stuff instead of jelly. "My mom makes my lunch and she tends to forget that."

Dean leaves the bag lying between them as he continues to work on his milk carton, having to turn it around to try the other side. "What are you eating?" he asks, seeing Isaac lick a trace of the fluffy stuff from his finger.

"Peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich," Isaac says, taking another bite.

"Marshmallow?" Dean looks at the sandwich again, trying to imagine how someone came up with that.

"Yep, they sell the stuff in jars. It's awesome."

"I'll take your word for it," Dean says, smiling as he finally gets his milk open.

"So, do you start your detention today?" Isaac asks, determined to strike up a conversation.

"Uh-huh," Dean tells him, breaking off the bruised part of his banana. "Me, too," Isaac says, pulling out another peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich.

Dean slowly eats his meager lunch, occasionally glancing at the bag of chips in the center of the table. "You can seriously have those, man. If you don't eat 'em, I'm just gonna throw 'em away." Isaac pushes the bag towards Dean.

Dean takes the bag and opens it, pulling out two chips and putting them in his mouth. "Why do you even buy them if you don't like them?"

"My mom does the shopping, not me. My sister likes to snack on them," Isaac says as he takes a sip from his own milk carton.

Dean taps his finger on the table, slowly chewing the chips, trying to work up the nerve to ask what he's been wanting to know for a full week. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Why'd I get involved with David and his goons?" Isaac guesses, earning a quick nod from Dean. "I don't know. I guess I didn't like the idea of three guys teaming up against one."

"You don't even know me," Dean points out. "For all you know, I could have deserved to get my ass kicked."

Isaac purses his lips and nods, considering the truth to Dean's statement. "I've known David since Kindergarten. It's been my experience that no one deserves what David gives them. And for the record, after seeing what you did to Reggie and David, I don't think you would have gotten your ass kicked."

Dean can't help smiling as he remembers the bloody look of confusion on David's face as he tried to figure out what went wrong while he was being dragged back to the school.

"I probably would have if you hadn't handled the big guy," Dean tells him, taking another handful of chips.

"Yeah, probably," Isaac laughs, and Dean laughs with him.

The rest of the lunch period is spent talking about their week off during their suspension, Dean altering his a bit in order to leave off the parts about researching possible possessions a county over. He's a little surprised to find himself disappointed when the bell rings. He actually enjoyed talking to Isaac, finding the guy easy to get along with.

His good mood immediately dissipates the moment he walks into English class and sees Becky sitting in her front row seat. She doesn't even look at him as he walks by, and Dean's determined not to let her get to him.

The class drags by, Dean wanting to break something every time Becky raises her hand, or laughs, or moves, or freaking breathes.

He shouldn't have sat at that stupid table.

Three o'clock doesn't come fast enough, and when it finally does, Dean's joy is short lived. He's got detention. Another hour of school. He's directed to the life sciences and home economics classroom by a teacher that looks like she's trying to relive the glory days of Woodstock.

The room is large, split into two sections. One looks like a kitchen, with several stoves on one wall, while the other section is like a traditional classroom, surrounded by many shelves holding enough arts supplies to suffice the entire elementary school.

The teacher walks in and points to one of the desks in the back of the classroom, telling Dean that that's his new assigned seat for the week. Dean looks up and finds a reason to smile. Screw Becky Thompson and her dumbass opinions. Forget Mr. Finnegan's extra homework. His new favorite person is whatever Miss Hippie-Chick's real name is. He should really buy her an apple or whatever it is students get teachers for presents, because really, the woman and her stupid arts and crafts inspired classroom just made his day.

Dean smiles and makes sure to do his homework, not even looking at the other kids. Throughout the detention, he casually reaches behind him and grabs one of the items off the shelf that had first caught his attention when he walked into the room. By the time the clock strikes four o'clock, he's managed to nab four brightly colored bottles of fabric paint, all tucked away safely in his backpack.

Screw Sammy and his black cast.

Dean follows the other kids outside, all of them immediately going to cars lined up in front of the steps. Dean looks around, but doesn't see any sign of his dad. Normally, they tried to find a place close to the schools, but New Hope doesn't exactly have a convenient layout.

The trailer park is about eight miles from Dean's school, eleven from Sammy's, meaning that if their dad doesn't pick them up, they have to ride the bus home. Dean hadn't reminded John about the detention, he just kind of assumed he would remember or at least figured it out when he saw that Sam was all by himself. That's if he's even home at all.

Dean walks a couple of steps down and takes a seat, deciding to wait a while before he starts walking, give his dad a chance just in case he remembers.

"Hey, Dean!" Isaac rolls down the window to a red minivan, waving his arm in order to get Dean's attention. "Do you need a lift?" Dean sees a woman, presumably Isaac's mom, looking at him from the driver's seat. She's young, a lot younger than his dad and a lot prettier than Isaac. She's smiling, waiting on an answer.

"Nah, I'm good." Dean waves them off, smiling to show his appreciation for them asking. "My dad's just late," he lies while hoping it's the truth. Eight miles is a long way.

"Alright, see ya," Isaac yells back as the minivan starts to drive off.

Ten minutes goes by and Dean doesn't think anything of it, at least not until he sees the storm clouds in the distance. "Why the hell is it always raining here?" he says out loud, as he starts walking east, towards the trailer park.

He's making good time, all that training coming in handy. Maneuvers and morning runs have helped build up his endurance and speed, letting him walk two miles in just under twenty-five minutes. He's keeping a steady pace, knowing better then to wear himself out when he's not even halfway yet.

As he gets closer to home, the clouds start to get darker, and he starts to pick up his pace, fearing that he won't make it before the rain comes.

Cars steadily pass by, none of them concerned with a teenager walking on the side of the street. He makes sure to walk on the left hand side of the road, into the oncoming traffic—the last thing he wants is to get hit from behind. One close call with death by car is enough for one week, thank you very much.

Each time a pair of headlights meets him, he steps into the grass, getting out of the car's way. It's a steady pattern, him alternating between the asphalt and the ditch as he nears the three mile mark.

When a pair of the headlights slows down considerably, he tenses, readying himself for a possible confrontation. Only two types of people are going to stop and offer a complete stranger help. One type is the Good Samaritan, and the other is the Perverted Psycho. Dean knows which one there are more of.

The headlights slowly morph into a red minivan, the pretty raven-haired woman from before smiling as she pulls to a stop.

"Dean, right?" she asks, and Dean thinks her voice matches her looks, soft and nice.

"Uh, yeah. Isaac's mom, right?"

"That's right. Do you want a ride?" she asks, already leaning over to unlock the passenger side door.

"That's alright, really. It's not that much farther," Dean assures her.

"Where are you going?" she asks, and Dean realizes where Isaac gets his determination.

"The trailer park near Euclid." If Dean had a gun, he could shoot himself. He should have lied.

"Sweetie, that's like ten miles away," she says, and Dean sees the maternal look in her eyes, only this time it looks different from the other women, the waitresses and hotel cleaning ladies, but Dean doesn't know why. Maybe it's because she's an actual mom.

"More like six," Dean corrects, knowing it doesn't sound any better. Six, ten—either one, it's still a long way.

When a flash of lightening flashes in the distance, shortly followed by a loud thunderclap, Isaac's mom doesn't wait for Dean to change his mind. She changes it for him. "Get in. I'm not gonna be responsible for you getting struck by lightening."

As the first drops of rain start to fall, Dean accepts defeat and climbs in the front of the van. "Buckle up," she says as she turns the van in the opposite direction, heading towards the Winchester's current residence.

"How was your first day back?" Mrs. Hardwicke asks in an attempt to keep them from falling into an awkward silence. Dean feels a little uncomfortable, not having been near a woman outside of the usual roles of student, teacher or waitress, patron. He doesn't know how to act.

"It was okay," he says tentatively, not really knowing if she really cares. Do moms care about other people's kids? "It's school, you know?"

"That sounds about right. Isaac's not to fond of it either." She smiles that smile again, and Dean feels his chest tighten. "I use to have to bribe him to go to kindergarten." She laughs this time, and Dean likes the way it sounds. Comforting and happy.

"Do your parents work late?" she asks as they wait on a stoplight to change.

"My dad does sometimes. It's just him, me, and my brother." Dean says, relieved when she doesn't ask about his mother.

They pull up to the trailer park and Dean unbuckles his seatbelt. "Thanks, Mrs. Hardwicke."

"It's no problem, which one's yours?" She turns into the park, slowing down as she looks at him expectantly.

"That's okay, I can walk from here." His hand's on the door, waiting for her to stop the van.

"But it's still raining." When Dean looks at her, he doesn't know how to respond. He usually uses sarcasm or some other form of wit when people disagree with him, but for reasons he's too afraid to admit, he doesn't want to be disrespectful to her.

"It's really not a problem." He has no idea why he even bothers saying it, it didn't work the first time, why would it a second?

"Come on, which one?" she smiles again.

"It's down at the end, last one on this side." He points in the general direction and leans back in the seat, content to let her drive him all the way.

When the trailer comes into view, he feels his stomach drop. The Impala's parked right out front. Either his dad _just_ got home and hasn't realized that Dean isn't there, or he really just forgot about him. He doubts it's the latter seeing as how his father's been watching him like a hawk, keeping close tabs on him the last few weeks. There's no way he'd just forget about it all in one day.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hardwicke." Dean cringes when he hears the unwelcomed sadness in his voice. He can tell himself he doesn't care all he wants, but his stupid emotions keep trying to prove him wrong.

"Like I said Sweetie, it's not a problem."

Dean kind of panics when she cuts of the van, undoing her own seatbelt and opens her door. "Um…"

She looks at him, and smiles. "I just want to talk to your dad a moment." When she sees the look of panic her words evoke, she quickly adds, "It's nothing bad, I promise. I just think I can help out a little, that's all." She closes the van door and starts walking towards the front door, not giving Dean a chance protest.

Dean walks up just as she's knocking. He leans by her and pushes the front door open, revealing a very worried looking Sam. "Dude, where've you been?" Sam asks, not even looking at the woman standing in the rain.

Dean pushes his brother aside, praying there aren't any weapons within view. He highly doubts Mrs. Hardwicke is the guns as a centerpiece kinda woman. "Where's Dad? Isaac's mom wants to talk to him," Dean tells his brother, as he closes the door against the rain. He watches as Isaac's mom looks around the small living space, taking in the sparse furnishings and lack of personal touches. Dean likes her even more when he doesn't see judgment in her eyes.

Sam runs into their dad's bedroom, not even bothering to knock before bursting through the door, whispering in a none-to-quite voice, "Dad there's a lady with Dean who wants to talk to you!"

Dean rolls his eyes as Mrs. Hardwicke laughs lightly. It doesn't take long before Dean's dad walks out of the bedroom, pulling his shirt down over his head. He looks at Dean, realization dawning on his face as though he just remembered something important. Something like picking his son up from school. Dean feels his stomach drop. Again.

"Sorry to bother you. I'm Trish Hardwicke." Mrs. Hardwicke extends her small hand towards John. He takes her hand, still looking a little uncertain as to who she is and why she's standing in his living room. "I'm Isaac's mom, he's a friend of Dean's," she says as way of clarification. Dean doesn't say anything about her calling Isaac his friend. She's nice, there's no reason to correct her.

"John Winchester," he says, looking to Dean, hoping he'll explain why she's here. Sensing his father's confusion, Dean clears his throat and points towards the door. "Mrs. Hardwicke drove me home. I guess since you had to work late."

Dean sees the silent 'oh, crap' flash across his father's face. So, his dad had forgotten about him. Guess he should be happy. It means his father isn't worried to leave him alone anymore.

"Thank you. I got off work late and forgot all about Dean's detention." John runs a hand through his hair, scratching at the back of his neck.

"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I already have to go to the school to pick up Isaac, and we pass by here on the way home. It would be no problem for me to drop him off before I go to work."

When she sees the look of uncertainty pass across John's face, she smiles that mom-smile. "I work the night shift in town," she says. "I don't have to be there until five thirty so I have plenty of time. I really don't mind."

"Well, thank you. We'd appreciate it." John smiles, once again extending is hand for her to shake. "If there's ever anything we can do for you…" Dean knows his dad's only saying it to be nice. Short of cleaning out any ghosts the Hardwicke's might have in their attic, there isn't much they can do.

"Thanks," she says, jingling her keys in one hand as she reaches for the doorknob with the other. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow, Dean."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hardwicke," he says, moving to hold the door for her. She smiles at him before running into the rain to her van. Dean shuts and locks the door slowly, turning to find both his father and his brother staring at him.

"I tried to tell her she didn't have to drive me, but she's kind of persistent." Dean drops his book bag by the door.

"Dean, I really did just get home. I completely forgot you wouldn't be on the bus." John sits down at one of the foldout chairs near the table. "How long were you waiting?"

"Not long," Dean tells him as he removes his jacket. "I started walking when I noticed the storm clouds."

"I'm sorry, dude." John shrugs, not really knowing anything else to say.

"It's fine, Dad. She's the only one that's really making a big deal out of it," Dean says, hoping his dad will let it drop. He really doesn't feel like getting into it and knows his dad's 'I'm sorry, dude' is about as deep as John's apologies go.

"You eat yet?" Dean turns to Sam, asking to see whether or not his brother had fed himself. When Sam shakes his head no, Dean starts looking through the cabinets. He settles for a can of Spam and decides to fry it, silently daring his brother to complain. Today has sucked and the last thing he needs is another reason to hate Mondays.

Sam seems to understand his brother's body language, keeping quiet as Dean grabs a frying pan and starts slicing the Spam.

"They're saying the man that almost hit you was suffering from an aneurism. His brain was bleeding," John says, clarifying when Sam looks like he doesn't understand. "So far, there's been twenty-six accidents within three months. The asshole from the other day makes twenty-seven." John continues giving the boys information about the job. Seeing how this is the most he's shared since first discovering the accidents, Dean assumes its out of guilt for leaving him at the school.

"My theory is we're looking at possessions. Probably the same thing possessing different drivers." John watches his boys to see if they're taking it in. Sam's sitting at the table, an unfinished worksheet lying in front of him, while his eyes dart between his father and brother. Dean's eyes are focused on the frying pan, occasionally flipping a piece of the Spam.

"Dean. You listening?" John snaps, not really meaning to. He guesses it's out of habit.

"Same demon, different victims. Yes, sir, I'm listening."

"Watch the attitude."

"Sorry, sir," Dean apologizes as he reaches for the loaf of bread.

"How do you stop it?" Sam asks, and John doesn't know if it's out of curiosity or in order to divert attention from his brother, saving him from getting in trouble. John's noticed both boys do that, Dean more than Sam does, but Sam will do it occasionally. He's done it a lot in the last month or so.

"Exorcism," Dean answers sitting a fried Spam sandwich down in front of his brother. "You want one?" Dean looks at his father as he points to the sandwich.

John nods while Sam asks, "How do you know?" in a tone Dean suspects is reserved for annoying little brothers.

"Because I pay attention, that's how," Dean answers in the appropriate, big brother tone. All the response is missing is for Dean to stick out his tongue, something he outgrew when he was ten.

"So you'll do the exorcism and then it'll be gone, right? Like the movie?" Sam asks around a mouthful of Spam and mayo.

John looks at Dean, who shrugs and says, "It was on TV and you said not to leave the motel."

"So you let him watch 'The Exorcist'?" John asks, accepting his own sandwich.

"Dad, you're talking about doing the real thing. How is a movie any worse?" Dean counters. John takes a bite of his sandwich, choosing to ignore Dean's point when he realizes he doesn't have a decent argument.

"We can't do the exorcism until we know who it's possessing," John explains, "That's why it's taking so long to finish the job. I have no idea who it's possessing until after the accidents have already happened. By then, it's done moved on."

"So the only way to gank it, is to find out how it's choosing people to possess?" Dean asks.

"Exactly. But so far, it appears to be random."

Dean looks at his father, not liking the picture he's painting. "So we're screwed?"

"Not unless we get lucky," John says, shoving the rest of his sandwich into his mouth before standing to fix him another.

_We're so screwed_, Dean thinks as he considers the fact that Winchester Luck could be synonymous with Bad Luck. "Dude, hurry and eat so you can finish your homework. You still gotta take a bath," Dean says when he sees the half-finished worksheet.

"I'm almost done," Sam points out indignantly, obviously not liking having to be told. Dean just ignores him and continues working on his sandwich, counting down the minutes until he can say that Monday is over.

When John gets up later that night for a glass of water, he's surprised to see a light shining from beneath the boys' bedroom door. He doesn't knock, choosing to peak his head in to see what they're up to.

He's met with a surprised looking Dean, holding what looks like a hot pink tube of paint over a brightly decorated black cast. Taking a step closer, John identifies yellow flowers, purple hearts, and what looks like multi-colored fairies.

When John shakes his head and says, "Can you draw a unicorn?" Dean's smile threatens to split his face in two.

"I'm willing to try," he whispers, not wanting to wake his oblivious little brother.

Payback's awesome, especially when it's three years in the making.

Tuesday through Friday go by a lot smoother than Monday. Dean avoids Becky Thompson and her blonde friend at all costs, choosing to pretend as though they don't even exist. He takes Eric up on his offer to borrow his notes from the week before, catching him up in science. He uses detention to complete all of his homework, including the extra given to him by Mr. Finnegan, and each day he eats lunch with Isaac.

Dean doesn't admit it out loud, and when he starts to think about it, he quickly pushes the thought aside, but no matter whether he's willing to admit it to himself or not, he's starting to become friends with Isaac. The kind you invite over to play video games, something that becomes apparent when Isaac asks Dean whether or not he'd like to spend the night on the way home from detention on Friday.

Dean almost says yes without even considering it, but the ever-present thought of Sam keeps him from agreeing. "I can't. I've got to watch my brother while my dad's gone." Dean doesn't even know what to think when Mrs. Hardwicke chimes in from the front seat. "I've already talked to your dad about it. He said it'd be okay."

Dean looks at her for any sign that she might be lying. He spent two days buttering his dad up before asking him if Sam could stay with a friend. Even then, it took another two days before John had said yes. The idea that he would be willing to stay home and watch Sam by himself while Dean went and stayed at a friend's house just doesn't sound like the John Winchester Dean's spent the last nine years with.

"Are you sure you clarified that I'd be spending the night, as in sleeping at your house?" Dean asks, thinking maybe there had been some miscommunication.

"Yep, I thought I'd better ask him first since you told me you had been grounded after the fight. I didn't want for Isaac to invite you and you get your hopes up only to have your father say no."

"And he didn't say 'no'? He said 'yes'?" Mrs. Hardwicke laughs, making Dean blush, "Yes, sweetie, he said you could spend the night. You can ask him when we stop by and you get your clothes."

Isaac follows Dean inside when they pull up to the trailer. Dean guesses the Hardwicke's aren't big on waiting in the car. He unlocks the front door and walks in, finding his dad sitting at the table, several papers spread out in front of him.

"Hey boys," he greets them, not even looking up from the table.

"Hi, Mr. Winchester. Dean doesn't believe you gave him permission to stay with us." Dean elbows Isaac in the side, giving him a patented _What the Hell_ glare.

"What? You don't," Isaac says, rubbing his ribcage.

"If you want to, you can," John says, watching the exchange between the two boys.

"What about Sam?" Dean asks, still not convinced he's actually going to get to spend the night with Isaac.

"I can watch him. I am capable you know?" John says in a way that suggests he may be insulted by Dean insinuating that he can't.

"What about your _job_? Don't you have to _work_ tonight?" Dean's double and triple checking. He doesn't want his father to up and leave Sam all alone in the middle of the night. It's a valid fear, after all he started leaving Dean in charge when he was only seven.

"I thought I'd take tonight off, get some reading done." John casually gestures to the stack of papers, his journal resting closed on top.

"So, I can go?" Dean clarifies.

"You can go." John confirms.

Dean doesn't waste any time darting to his room in order to grab some clothes. He finds Sam resting on the bed, one of his many books propped up on his lap. He glares at Dean, still angry about the cast he now has wrapped in an old t-shirt.

He had been on the verge of tears when he woke up Tuesday morning to find that his black cast was no longer black. In his opinion, a purple unicorn with a flower growing out of it's butt is _way_ worse than Snow White and Cinderella.

"Hey, Little Man," Isaac says, plopping down next to Sam on the bed. Dean and Sam both still as Isaac gets dangerously close to Dean's pillow and the gun that's hidden underneath.

"Hey," Sam closes his book and lays it on top of the pillow as a deterrent for Isaac not to touch it. "Dean spending the night with you?" He asks Isaac even though his eyes are on his brother, hurriedly stuffing a pair of clothes into the duffle.

"Yep, but it's just for one night. You guys share this room?" He starts looking around, finding it odd that there isn't anything that looks like two boys live there. There's a soccer ball on the floor, and a stack of books on the dresser. But there aren't any posters on the walls or toys spread out everywhere.

"Yeah, there's only two bedrooms," Dean explains, suddenly feeling embarrassed about the drab looking bedroom.

"You guys share a bed, too?" Dean shrugs a shoulder, wishing Isaac had stayed in the car while he got his clothes.

"The trailer was furnished when we moved in," he explains, not bothering to mention the fact that he and Sam akmost _always_ share a bed.

"You're lucky, Little Man. I used to have to wait for my big bro to fall asleep before I'd crawl into bed with him. I was a big scaredy cat when I was little, but Isaiah never wanted me sleeping in his bed," Isaac says to Sam, reminding Dean why he considers the guy a friend.

"I'm not too lucky. Dean hogs all the covers." Sam scoots closer to Dean's pillow when Isaac stands.

"How can I hog the covers if you're all over the bed, Runt? Half the time I wake up, you've got your foot in my face." Dean zips his bag and gestures to the door for Isaac to leave. When he sees Sam flip him the middle finger, he stops long enough to return the favor.

Before the door's completely shut, he pushes it back open, whispering, "You gonna be okay?"

"Dean, I'm not a baby," Sam reminds him, reaching for his book and searching for his lost page.

"So you keep reminding me, but seriously if you want me to stay, I will," Dean keeps his voice low so Isaac won't hear him.

"I'm fine Dean. I promise. Have fun." Sam smiles, encouraging his brother to leave.

"I'll see you tomorrow then," Dean promises, pulling the door shut and following Isaac outside.

Isaac lives in a large, three-bedroom apartment about ten minutes from the trailer park. It's not anything fancy, but it's a whole lot nicer than anything Dean's ever stayed in, at least not since Lawrence.

As Isaac leads the grand tour, Dean counts four TVs and just as many VCR players. The living room as two whole shelves dedicated to movies and CDs. There's two bathrooms and a large kitchen, complete with a fully stocked fridge.

In Dean's opinion, the Hardwicke's have it made.

Dean sits on one of the two large beanbags situated in front of the TV in the second living room, or as Isaac calls it, the family room. They sit and play Donkey Kong and Mortal Kombat on a Super Nintendo, pausing only to go to the bathroom and refill their popcorn.

Dean tries to ignore the feelings of guilt he has as he drinks his third coke, knowing that Sam is most likely holed up in their room trying to entertain himself and looking forward to a meal of Vienna sausages. Isaac's mom had put a meatloaf in the oven before she left for work, and Dean can hear the older boy in the house, who he assumes is Isaiah, Isaac's older brother, banging pots around, indicating they might have sides to go with the meatloaf.

Dean is just finishing getting his butt kicked by Isaac for the third time in a row when Isaiah walks in holding a dark haired little girl that can't be older than two. She has big brown eyes, and a kool-aide stained tongue.

"Hey, if you want to eat anytime tonight, you and your boyfriend need to watch Izzie." The older version of Isaac sits the little girl down, handing her a sippy-cup.

"Yo, Dickweed, this is Dean, my not-boyfriend friend. Dean, this is Dickweed, my big brother, but my mom just calls him Isaiah." Isaac doesn't even look up from the TV screen.

"You can just call me Dean," Dean says by way of greeting, choosing to ignore the boyfriend comment. After all, he is a big brother, too so he gets it. "Do you need any help with dinner?"

"You know how to cook?" Isaiah asks with a slight air of disbelief.

"I know the basics," Dean tells him as the little girl sits on the side of his beanbag.

"Let me guess, you made an A plus in Home-Ec, right?" Dean decides just because he's a fellow big brother and the brother of his new and only friend, doesn't mean he has to like Isaiah.

"No, I learned from spending the last five years cooking for me and my brother." Dean bites back, helping the little girl fix her leaking sippy-cup before she stains the entire front of her shirt red.

Isaiah cools down a little, but not enough. Obviously, this seventeen year old isn't too thrilled with having to stay home on a Friday night in order to keep an eye on his younger siblings. "Your mom work nights at a strip club, too?"

"Isaiah!" Isaac's had enough, and he pauses the game, leveling his brother with a glare that tells the older boy he's crossed a line. Dean isn't sure if it's the part where he mentioned where their mother works, or the part where he brought up Dean's deceased mother. It could really be either, because Isaac's never mentioned what his mom does for a living, and ever since finding out about Dean's mom, he made sure to stay away from that topic, too.

"No, my mom's dead," Dean says in a carefully even voice, effectively draining all color from Isaiah's face.

"Sorry, man. I didn't know," Isaiah has enough sense to look ashamed at his earlier outburst. Rubbing his hand across the back of his neck. "Look, I've got dinner covered, can you two just watch the baby, please?"

"Yeah, we got her," Isaac snaps, as he continues to stare at his brother. "You can go now." Isaiah holds his hands up in defense and makes a show of backing out of the room.

The two boys sit in quiet for a few seconds, neither one knowing what to say. Izzie breaks the silence when she shoves her sippy-cup into Dean's face, staining his cheek with the spilled drink in an offer to share.

"I'm sorry about him. He thinks he's too good for the whole baby-sitting thing, and Mom doesn't exactly trust me to keep Isabelle out of trouble." Isaac still hasn't unpaused the game. "He was really pissed when Dad left, and he still hasn't gotten over it."

Dean doesn't tell Isaac that he doesn't blame his brother for still being upset, he has no idea what he would do if either Sam or his dad were to leave. "It's fine, dude. No harm done," Dean assures him, no longer in the mood for video games.

"She's a bartender, not a stripper," Isaac makes no move to get the climbing two year old out of Dean's lap. It's not a problem, Dean knows how to deal with a toddler, and he has to admit it's a lot easier when he isn't four feet tall.

"She only took the job so she could be home during the day with the baby. There's not a lot she could do in this town—"

"Isaac. Chill, man. I'm not about to go judging your mom. She's got a job and she's working to feed her family. That's enough. So, what if it's at a strip club? I, personally, see nothing wrong with 'em." Dean smiles in order to show Isaac his sincerity. His family puts food on the table by committing credit card fraud and doing questionable, and oftentimes illegal odd jobs. Sometimes they just out right steal it off the shelf. He's not going to judge a woman for working in a strip joint. You do what you can; Dean learned that a long, long time ago.

Dean reaches forward and unplugs the controller from the Nintendo before handing it to Izzie to play with.

"It's just kind of embarrassing, you know? All the guys at school talking about my mom being a stripper. People stopped inviting us over when she took the job. They all judge her, and it isn't fair." Isaac's breathing picks up as his temper starts to rise again.

"No, it's not fair," Dean agrees, knowing all too well how much it sucks to be judged for things people don't understand. It's a bad habit that the majority of society has picked up.

"I got potty," Izzie announces proudly, motivating Isaac into action. Diaper duty isn't something he enjoys.

"Come, on Isabelle. Let's go," Isaac picks the little girl up and rushes to the bathroom, leaving Dean alone. Picking up the abandoned sippy-cup, Dean walks into the kitchen, finding Isaiah putting a bowl with what looks like gravy into the microwave.

Dean quietly sits the sippy-cup on the counter, and tries to back out without drawing attention to his self. However, just as Dean makes it to the doorway, Isaiah turns around.

"Hey," he says, a little friendlier than before.

"Hey," Dean says uncomfortably, not really sure if he's welcome or not. "I was just dropping off the sippy-cup." He points towards the counter and the lone cup.

"Dinner's almost ready," Isaiah offers, grabbing an oven mitt and opening the oven. "You can go get the others." Dean just nods, knowing when he's being excused.

Along with multiple TVs and two living rooms, the Hardwicke's also have a large, wooden dining table, with a shiny lacquer finish and six matching chairs. As Dean fills his plate with a large slice of meatloaf, home made mashed potatoes, gravy, and creamed corn, he feels the guilt come back reminding him that Sam's probably trying to choke down a second can of sausages or trying to sneak an extra piece of bologna.

Dean tries to distract himself from the guilt by busying himself with cutting up Isabelle's meatloaf and making sure her potatoes aren't too hot. Isaiah didn't waste any time in fixing his plate and disappearing into his room. Isaac seems more than willing to let Dean tend to the baby.

"You're good with her," Isaac says mixing his corn and potatoes. "Usually she doesn't like strangers."

"I used to take care of Sammy," Dean explains. "She's pretty easy to make happy."

Dean helps Isaac clean up after dinner, putting away the leftovers and washing the dishes. Once the baby's put to bed, both boys resume their video game, only stopping when Mrs. Hardwicke comes in at three in the morning.

"Look, I get that you're teenagers now and you don't have a bedtime, but three o'clock is a bit much." She ushers them to bed, picking up the empty soda cans before Dean has a chance. Dean doesn't tell her he usually stays up later on the weekends, three o'clock being the perfect time to dig a grave or the average time his dad usually finds his way back to whatever motel/trailer/cabin they happen to be living in at the time.

For the first time in a really, really long time, Dean sleeps in a bed by his self. Isaac has bunk beds for when friends spend the night, and despite the late hour and long day, Dean has trouble going to sleep.

The room's too quiet and the bed feels empty. He knows if Sam is asleep right now, it's because he crawled into bed with their dad. Either that, or the kid's sitting up with the lamp on, waiting for the sun to come up. Sam's never actually gotten the chance to spend the night at someone else's house. Dean had always been willing to drop him off for a couple of hours, but he was always there before bedtime to pick him up and bring him home.

Goodsprings was the first time their father had agreed, and Dean managed to ruin that. He can't help feeling a little relieved that it didn't work out, because this whole thing's starting to suck.

Never again. Dean can come over and hang out, but he can't spend the night. Not the whole night away from Sam. As he tries to go back to sleep, he tells himself that it's for Sam's benefit, not his.

It's nine o'clock before Dean even begins to stir. He sits up, quickly looking for his missing brother before remembering where he is. He's suddenly wide-awake despite only having a few hours sleep. The need to call his brother and check on him drags him out of bed and into the kitchen.

"Morning, Dean." Mrs. Hardwicke is already up wiping down Isabelle's highchair tray. "I didn't think you'd be up this early."

"Kind of used to it." He shrugs as he looks around the kitchen for a phone. "Do you mind if I call my brother? You know, just to check and make sure he's okay?"

She puts the tray back on the highchair and stares at him, studying him. It makes Dean feel a little uncomfortable until she smiles and tosses the washcloth into the sink. "You really look after your brother don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am." He's careful to keep the _well, duh_, out of his voice.

"You're dad must be proud. Lord knows I can't get my boys to look after one another without anything short of a promise of punishment." She reaches into a cabinet and hands him a package of poptarts. "The phone's in the living room, by the couch."

Dean takes the poptarts, thanking her before searching for the phone.

It only rings twice before Sam's answering. His voice is tired and Dean can tell the kid didn't sleep well. "Hey, Sammy. Just callin' to check on you."

Dean silently mouths alongside Sam's predictable "I'm not a baby, Dean."

"I think I might have heard that before. You get on a sixth grade reading level, and bam! You're all grown up."

"You and Dad are the ones that keep telling me to be more independent," Sam points out, and Dean can hear the eye roll through the phone.

"I'm pretty sure I was referring to brushing your teeth and making your own breakfast. I'm not expecting you to rough it solo all the time."

"I know," Sam says around a yawn. "Did you have fun?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Where's Dad?" Dean wonders why his father hadn't answered the phone, and he's starting to panic that maybe the man did leave Sammy all alone.

"He's in the shower. He hasn't gone to sleep yet."

"What? Why not?"

"He was reading all night, he kept calling people talking 'bout the demon and stuff."

Dean looks to the kitchen, making sure Mrs. Hardwicke isn't listening. When he sees her stirring a cup of coffee, he whispers into the phone. "Did he find anything?"

"I don't know. He's got notes and stuff written everywhere but I can't read it." Sam may be on a sixth grade reading level, but it takes more than an impressive vocabulary to decipher John's cryptic shorthand.

"He didn't say anything to you?" Dean rolls his eyes at his own question. _Of course he didn't say anything. Need to know_.

"Nuh-uh. I woke up and he jumped in the shower."

"Alright. Well, I'll be there in a little while. I'll ask and see if he's still in the sharing kind of mood when I get there."

"I know he's supposed to meet with someone today. I heard him say it on the phone." Sam's whispering now, making sure his father doesn't hear about the late-night eavesdropping.

Dean doesn't have the opportunity to ask any more questions because a still half-asleep Isaac shuffles into the living room, followed by an exasperated looking Mrs. Hardwicke.

"We'll talk about it when I get home, Sammy. See you in a little bit." Dean frowns when his brother doesn't even say goodbye, but simply hangs up the phone.

"Everything okay?" Isaac's mom asks, tossing a bundle of yellow clothes at Isaac who grabs them and begins dressing his little sister.

"Yeah, it's just my dad has to work, and no one will be there to watch Sammy…" he slowly trails off when he sees recognition in her eyes.

"It's no problem sweetie. We can take you home on the way into town. I've got to drop Isaiah off at a friend's and then go grocery shopping. It won't be a problem."

"And I can go back to sleep?" Isaac asks hopefully as he struggles to get his sister's arms into the small dress.

"Only if you're planning on sleeping in the car. I'm not about to take her grocery shopping by myself, and I'm not leaving her here if you're gonna sleep all day." Dean forces himself not to laugh at his friend. The voice might have been softer, but the tone she had used could rival his dad's.

Dean's used to moving fast. When you wake up and decide to go somewhere, you move and get it done. The Hardwicke's like to take their time, choosing to eat breakfast slowly and get dressed even slower.

Sitting on the couch waiting for Isaiah to find his other shoe, Dean vows to never question his dad's insistency on organization and punctuality again. The guy's seventeen years old. How does he loose a shoe, just one shoe at that?

It takes them another twenty minutes before Isaac finally finds his brother's shoe stuck between the washer and the dryer. Dean climbs into the back of the minivan on the passenger side, a little upset to see that Isaiah is going to be driving.

"Buckle up, pipsqueaks," The older boy calls out as he cranks the van and starts to back out of the parking lot. "Where d'you live, kid?" Dean can't help noticing that Isaiah seems to be in a happier, albeit more obnoxious mood than the night before. _At least he managed to get enough sleep_, Dean thinks.

"In the trailer park where Casey used to live," Mrs. Hardwicke answers for Dean. They merge into the light Saturday morning traffic. There aren't many cars on the road, and the sun's actually out for a change, making the ride pleasant.

They continue down the road, Mrs. Hardwicke reminding her son's of the chores she noticed they hadn't done, the baby in the back row of the van pointing at the different cars and trucks they pass, asking questions in a mix of gibberish and English that Dean can barely make out.

Out of nowhere Isaiah leans forward and cuts off the radio, clears his throat and asks in a loud, taunting voice, "So, Dean. Do you think little Sammy's gonna grow up to follow in your dad's footsteps?"

Dean stares at the boy, at the smirk he can see even from his position in the back seat. Suddenly, he wants nothing but for Isaiah to pull over, and let him out, to let them all out.

"What are talking about?" Mrs. Hardwicke asks, turning to try and see Dean sitting behind her, to see his reaction to her son's odd question.

Dean doesn't say anything, he just grips the armrests, turning his knuckles white. "Dean, you okay?" Isaac asks, sensing that something's wrong.

"Are you going to answer me Dean?" Isaiah begins thrumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "Do you think Sammy will grow up to be a big bad hunter like Daddy Winchester?"

Any doubt that Dean may have had that things are messed up evaporates in that instance.

"I know what you are, Dean," Isaiah continues, ignoring his mother and brother's attempts to get him to shut up and explain himself. "I know why you're here."

Dean tightens his seat belt when he feels the van pick up speed. "Hang on!" he yells just as Isaiah turns the steering wheel, sending them off the road.

The van hits the ditch hard, the front end going down as the back comes up and over, landing the van on it's top. Dean takes a deep breath, thinking it's over, that he's still alive as the baby starts to scream.

He doesn't have time to exhale when he feels the van shift, the momentum from the initial impact sending the van down the slope. At first, it just starts to slide, but as the incline of the slope increases, the van picks up speed, eventually starting to roll, gravity and seatbelts working against one another as they push and pull at the passengers. Glass shatters and metal grinds with each roll. Every time the roof of the van comes in contact with the ground, it gets closer to Dean's head.

Seconds later, the van comes to a stop.

Dean doesn't realize it. His head's still moving, his stomach still turning. The baby's still screaming, but it sounds far away. There's pain. His head, his side, his legs, and his stomach. All of him hurts.

He opens his eyes and looks up, seeing the roof of the car inches from his face. "Isaac,…" He turns towards his friend, hoping to see if he's alright. Isaac's slumped in the seat next to Dean, his eyes opened, giving the impression that he's looking out what remains of the van's window. The odd angle of his neck, his too still chest, and the blood caking around his ear tell Dean otherwise.

"I know why you're here, Dean Winchester." Dean turns his head slowly, finding two black eyes staring at him from the broken driver's seat. Blood's running down Isaiah's head, trailing down his nose before pooling in his mouth. "But do you know why I'm here?"

Isaiah suddenly jerks his head back, his jaw opening wide as a large, black cloud erupts from his mouth, his screams amplified in the small space of the twisted van. Isaiah coughs, before blinking and crying out in pain.

"What happened?" He whimpers, looking at the steering wheel pushing against his chest. Dean watches as Isaiah looks towards the passenger seat, his eyes falling on the bloodied figure of his mother.

Dean lets his eyes follow Isaiah's, regretting it instantly. The front seat had broken, the back falling into Dean's lap, the headrest pushing into his stomach, pinning him in place. Mrs. Hardwicke is laid out on the seat, her dark hair glued to the leather by blood.

Dean could easily reach his hand out and touch her, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to be here. He wants his brother and his dad. He wants his mom, he doesn't want to be sitting here trapped next to his dead friend, and his dying family.

"MOM!" Isaiah screams when he finally realizes what it is he's looking at. The seventeen year old starts to sob, his one good hand coming out to shake his mother's shoulder. The movement causes her head to roll bonelessy from side to side, and Dean can't take it anymore.

He leans forward the best he can and throws up, the sounds of his retching blending with the cries of the baby and her big brother.

He knows how Isaiah feels. He lost his mom, too. A demon had taken her, just like a demon's now taken Isaac's mom.

A hand on his shoulder causes Dean to jerk, sending a sharp, stabbing pain through his body.

"Son, stay still. We're gonna get you out." Dean sees the man trying to lean into his window. He barely registers someone asking him his name, while someone else puts something around his neck. He doesn't know if he manages to answer them before the blackness takes over.


	5. Chapter 5

John Winchester has a mental list of things he wants to forget, but knows he never will. The image of his wife pinned to their son's ceiling has been at the top of that list for the last nine years. He has grown to understand that nothing can top it.

However, the sight of a state-trooper standing on his front steps, asking him if he knows a Dean Winchester, is quickly becoming a very close second.

It's not so much the fact that he can't comprehend what the officer is telling him, as much as he doesn't want to comprehend it.

He knows the moment the officer tells him his son's been involved in a car accident that whatever he's hunting has left Goodsprings and has made it's way to New Hope.

He lets the hunter take over, the father in him too emotional to deal with the reality of what's happening. "Is he alive?"

"Last I heard, yes. He was transported to Mercy about an hour ago."

"Why am I just hearing about this?" John demands, gripping the doorframe.

"Dean lost consciousness before the medics could get anything out of him. One of the bystanders managed to get his name and we called the school to find you."

John nods his head, already trying to find a course of action, trying to think of a way to find and trap the demon.

"Sir, I can drive you to the hospital." The young officer offers, looking like the last thing he wanted to do was to be the one to tell the man leaning against the doorframe about his son.

"I have to get my other son. Just…just give me a minute."

"I'll be waiting outside." The officer turns and walks down the few steps as John closes the door, resting his head against the frame as he takes a shaky breath.

"Is Dean okay?" Sam's small voice makes John's breath catch.

He quickly wipes at his eyes and turns to his youngest son. "No, bud. He's hurt, though and we gotta go. Hurry and get your shoes."

Sam doesn't even bother with socks. He pulls on his sneakers, grabbing his jacket and pulling it over his soccer t-shirt, Dean's old basketball shorts nearly reaching his ankles.

John picks Sam up and carries him out the door to the waiting police cruiser. They ride in silence to the hospital.

By the time John reaches the front desk, Dean has already been at the hospital for over two hours. It had taken them nearly an hour to get him out of the wrecked van, making a grand total of three hours since his son's been hurt.

The man at the desk had obviously been waiting for John to arrive, because Dean's name is barely out of John's mouth before he's being directed to a small waiting room on the third floor. The room's a lot nicer than the waiting room for the ER. The chairs are padded and there's even a couch.

The large TV in the corner is muted, replaying an interview for one of the candidates running in the local mayoral election. John and Sam are the only ones in the room.

The large clock on the wall reads that it's just after one in the afternoon. He's supposed to be meeting with one of Caleb's old contacts in a couple of hours, one that claims to know a way to bring the demon to them. Instead, he's pacing back and forth in a nice waiting room waiting to hear whether or not his son's going to be okay.

Dean's supposed to be home. He should be watching Sammy, keeping an eye on things while John drives one state over to meet with a friend of a friend. John looks at his youngest sitting Indian style on the couch, chewing on the corner of his thumb. He wants to tell him that it'll be okay, that his big brother's just a little banged up. He doesn't, though, because John decided a long time ago not to lie to his boys about things like that.

He can't tell them everything—they don't need that burden. But when it comes to injuries, he knows to keep it black and white. Hope can be crippling, and false hope can kill you.

He look's at the clock again. Only seven minutes have passed since he's entered the room.

When that woman had called, asking if it would be all right for Dean to spend the night, John's gut reaction was to say 'no', but then he remembered the way his son talked about Isaac. Dean never mentions kids from school unless it was a girl he likes. Sam's always talking about kids from school, his teachers, the bus driver. The fact that John couldn't remember the last time his eldest son had mentioned having a friend forced him to change his mind and give his permission for the sleepover.

Never again. His boys know how to take care of themselves. They can protect one another when they're together, when they're in an environment that they can control. Sleepovers and civilians are too dangerous. Soccer games and field trips are one thing, but his boys aren't leaving home ever again.

John sits down in one of the padded chairs, his elbows resting on his knees why he cradles his head in his hands. A few hours ago, Sam had said that Dean had called, that he had said he'd be home later.

John should have gone and picked him up himself. It's what he was planning to do anyway, especially if he hadn't gotten home in time for him to meet with Sloane, or whatever Caleb said the guy's name was.

The door opening causes John to jump. Seeing an older, black man in scrubs has John on his feet, crossing the waiting room in three long strides. He's vaguely aware of Sam following close behind.

"Mr. Winchester?" the man asks, and John detects an eastern European accent. John nods, not trusting himself not to yell at the man to hurry and tell him about his son.

"Dean's going to be fine. There was a little internal bleeding, not as bad as we first thought." The doctor list other injuries, slight concussion, severe bruising, before going on to describe the surgical procedure, most of it John doesn't understand, but he follows along well enough to know that his son's lucky. The good kind of luck, not the stuff that usually follows them around.

Holding Sam's hand, he follows another too-young nurse to one of the rooms on the same floor. There are two chairs, a private bathroom, and a large window. They're told that Dean will be brought in as soon as he's out of recovery, to go ahead and make themselves comfortable.

The remote to the TV is attached to the wall, but neither John nor Sam move to grab it, both impatiently waiting to see Dean. An older nurse who looks as though she's done this job a while comes in not long after they've sat down. She takes one look at Sam bundled in obvious hand-me-downs before turning a set of compassionate eyes towards John.

John's not a very patient man, Mary had always told him that, and it hasn't changed since her death. Mary had been in labor for fifteen hours with Dean, twelve for Sam—both times nearly driving John up the wall. In the Marines, when someone wanted answers, there was no waiting around, you got up and you found them. The obstetrics ward in Lawrence, Kansas operated a little differently than the Marines, something John learned when the chief nurse threatened to have him sedated if he didn't calm down. _"The baby's running this show, Mr. Winchester. You can't rush it."_

John hadn't liked that woman too much, and despite having come to learn that most nurses have to be tough to do their jobs, he hasn't liked many nurses since then. Doctors he likes even less. But seeing the woman standing before him, with a thick stack of papers, he tries to accept the compassion in her eyes, and chooses to forgive her for simply doing her job.

"Mr. Winchester, I understand this isn't the best time, but in order to get your son in the system and move along with his treatment, we need to get some information." She maintains eye contact and keeps her voice professional yet caring.

John nods and accepts one of the small packets from her. He begins filling out the basic information: name, date of birth, address. He lists Dean's most recent injuries, starting with the broken nose and ending with the knot upside the back of the head.

When he reaches the portion of the forms designated for insurance information, John feels a soft pounding begin behind his eyes. He has an insurance card, to be used for emergencies only. This is an emergency; the only problem is that Dean is listed under Dean Winchester. The card in his wallet is issued to a Jonathan Paolini and his two sons.

Biting the bullet, John puts down that they have no insurance, accepting the large debt that will follow him, because there is no way he's going to be able to or willing to pay.

Another light knock on the door pushes the forms to the back of his mind, hopeful that they're bringing Dean in. Instead, the state-trooper that had driven him and Sam to the hospital pokes his head in the door, before opening it wide and stepping inside.

An older man wearing a matching trooper's uniform follows the first. "Mr. Winchester," he says by way of greeting, moving to take off his hat. "I'm Officer Cooper. You've already met Officer Haroldson." He gestures to the younger man standing next to him. "We were the first officers on scene," casting his eyes towards Sam, he gestures to the door. "If you'd like to step outside for a moment, we'd like to get some information from you as well as tell you what we know about the accident."

Out of necessity, the Winchesters generally try to stay away from hospitals and cops. Most people usually do, but for someone living the lifestyle of a hunter, especially with two young boys, it's even more prudent to stay under the radar. Yet, for the second time in less than a week, John finds himself standing in the hallway of a hospital talking to a pair of deputies waiting for news on one of his sons.

"He spent the night with a friend, and they were supposed to be dropping him off." John leans against the wall, the door to his son's room within sight. The troopers had asked why Dean was with the Hardwicke's hoping to have a better understanding of what happened.

"According to eyewitnesses, the van lost control just before the ravine. Doctor's have run the driver's blood, there was nothing in his system to suggest he was under the influence." John nods at the trooper's statement, knowing they're not telling him everything. He knows they will look for tire marks, traffic cameras, anything to understand what happened, they just won't share that information with him.

"What about the others? Are they okay?" John asks, knowing Dean will want to know as well as needing to know if there's anyone else he can talk to. The look shared between the two troopers tells John he isn't gong to like the answer.

"The driver's in surgery, and the baby's being treated in pediatrics, but…I'm sorry. The other passenger's didn't make it."

John nods, staring at the floor as though if he were to study it hard enough it would tell him how to fix this. After the fight at school, Dean had mentioned that he didn't have any friends. That little bit of information is what had convinced John to let Dean spend the night with Isaac. Dean had finally made a friend, even if it weren't willingly.

Now, John has to tell his son that his friend died. He tries to let the hunter take over, again. It's too hard to do this job as a father. There's too much emotion, too much to worry about. It's impossible to be both a hunter and a father at the same time. _You have to choose, John._

When the elevator opens and a gurney is pushed out, John decides the hunter can wait for a moment. He needs to be a father. The officers obviously understand, because at the sight of the gurney coming towards them, they quickly excuse themselves, promising to get in touch with John later.

Dean's still unconscious as they wheel him by. There are small scratches covering the right side of his face and neck, his right arm wrapped in a bandage similar to a mummy's. He's breathing deep and even and his mouth his parted slightly. As soon as the orderlies lock the bed's wheels in place and turn to leave, John steps up to the bed and places his hand on the side of his son's head.

John hears Sam pushing one of the chairs to the bed. He climbs up, sitting on his knees so he can clearly see his brother. "They said he's gonna be okay, right?" he asks, seeking reassurance.

"Yeah, he's gonna be okay." John pulls his own chair up next to Sam's, settling in and preparing for when Dean wakes up.

Dean's vaguely aware of a clicking sound, shortly followed by a steady hum. He opens his eyes and immediately sees the TV on, the sound muted as a weatherman points to various numbers displayed across a map. For a moment, Dean thinks he must have fallen asleep on the couch before he remembers that the trailer hadn't come with a TV.

The clicking starts again and he turns his head to see an IV pole, the little machine attached displaying a series of numbers that don't make sense, the lights flashing in sync with the clicks before returning to a hum.

Suddenly, it all comes back. Bunk beds, broken seats and blood, poptarts, missing shoes, and babies crying. Black eyes and smoke. Isaac.

Dean feels the sob before he hears it, before he even recognizes that it's coming from him. He doesn't fight it, and he isn't sure if it's because of the drugs or not. He doesn't care. Images of the accident play out in his mind and the dam breaks. A heavy hand on his shoulder causes his eyes to shoot open, revealing the image of his father looking at him worriedly.

Dean just looks at him, not knowing what to do, how to deal with what he's feeling. "They're dead. It killed 'em…" he whispers, and he doesn't fight as John rises to sit on the side of the bed, pulling him close. He continues to cry into his father's chest, as John rubs circles on his back. He thinks he remembers his dad doing this after his mom died. He knows it had happened other times; during stomach bugs and after nightmares. All before Dean had gotten too old, before John had gotten too distant.

Exhaustion wins out after a while, the drugs still present in Dean's system. John eases his now sleeping son back on the bed, silently thanking whoever's listening that he hadn't had to break the news of Isaac's death, while at the same time hating the fact that Dean already knew—he had witnessed it.

Sam's still asleep in the other chair, his legs hanging over the armrest as he uses his jacket as a blanket.

Dean had said 'it' killed them. That's what John's been waiting for, for some proof that this hadn't bee a run of the mill accident. He trusts his son over a stranger. Double-checking to make certain both sons are still asleep, John quietly exits the room, letting the hunter take over.

Sam wakes up to find his father gone and his brother staring blankly at the muted TV screen. Ignoring the crick in his neck, Sam jumps up on his knees and leans onto the bed, trying to gauge for himself whether or not Dean's okay. Dad had told him that Isaac and his mom had died, and had warned Sam against mentioning it at first.

He waits patiently as Dean turns tired, red-rimmed eyes towards him. "Hey, Sammy," Dean says, and Sam tries not to wince at the sadness he hears in his brother's voice. It's the same sadness Sam hears around Mother's Day and the beginning of November. It's the sadness associated with Death.

"Hey, Dean." Sam lets his fingers trace over the tape holding the IV port in place along his brother's arm. He wants to climb into the bed, but his father had also warned about jostling Dean, and causing him even more pain. "Are you hurting?"

Dean smiles, not with his eyes but it's still better than the blank look Sam had awoken to. "No, I'm good. Doctor's fixed me up."

Sam nods, chewing his lower lip as he thinks of what else he can say to his brother. "Where's Dad?" Dean just shrugs, turning his head to look at the empty seat next to the bed. "Don't know. He probably left to find out what happened."

"Did you talk to him?" Sam asks tentatively, knowing he's creeping up on dangerous territory. If Dean asks about Isaac, Sam doesn't know what he'll do.

"Yeah, I kinda talked to him." Dean avoids looking at his brother, choosing instead to focus all of his attention on the car salesman on TV, dancing around bragging about the three-day sale. Sam watches as Dean fights for control of his emotions. He blinks a lot, his teeth worrying his lower lip.

Finally, a rebellious tear slips its way past Dean's defenses, quickly falling down his cheek before slowing at his jaw. "Isaac died, Sammy. So did his mom." Dean sniffs, and clears his throat, refusing to have another breakdown.

Sam leans forward and rests his cheek against Dean's arm, whispering, "I know." Sam hears his brother sniff a few more times before Dean raises his arm and rests his hand on top of Sam's head, his fingers curling in the baby-soft locks.

They stay like that until Sam's legs begin to fall asleep. Dean hands his brother the remote, "Watch whatever you want. I'm gonna sleep." Sam keeps the volume muted as he flips through the hospital's channels, settling on an episode of Captain Planet before setting the remote back on the bed.

Despite Dean's claim to wanting to sleep, his eyes never close. He pushes himself up in the bed, wincing only once as he feels the stitches in his lower abdomen. He stares at the foot of his bed for a while, intentionally fighting sleep, fighting the opportunity for nightmares to take over. Instant replays of death are at the top of the list of things Dean wants to avoid.

He ends up watching the cartoon his brother's chosen, not really taking in anything that's happening.

He feels the pull of the pain meds urging him to close his eyes. When his father opens the door, Dean feels a rush of relief. There's something to grab his attention, something to help him stay awake.

"How you feeling, Dean?" John retakes his seat next to Dean's bed. Dean hears the soft spoken tone in his father's voice, the tone that strangers use when they're asking how you got a bruise, or where your parents are, and Dean knows that his dad wants to talk about the accident.

"I'm okay," Dean lies, forcing himself to be ready to relive what happened. He's all for pretending none of it was real, but he knows it's the only way to stop the demon, or whatever that black smoke had been. He's never seen anything like that before.

"Listen, I know you're probably not up to it," John begins, resting his hands in his lap.

"It's okay, Dad. What do you need to know?" John stares at his son, seeing the mask slip into place. He knows Dean isn't ready for this, but the only way to help him, to make certain he's safe is to stop the demon.

Nodding, John clears his throat, looking his oldest in the eyes. "Did it say anything to you?" He assumes that might be a safer answer. He doesn't want to just dive right in and ask his son to give him a complete blow-by-blow of the accident. He just needs to know anything that could help him learn who the demon is, why it targeted the Hardwickes.

Dean breaks eye contact, letting his eyes go up to the TV, a red-haired boy shooting fire from his ring. He closes his eyes once before bringing them back to his father's. "It knows who we are. You, me, and Sammy. It knows we're hunting it."

John forces his features to remain calm. The demon hadn't targeted the Hardwickes, it had been after Dean. "It told you that?" John asks.

Dean nods, his fingers playing with the chord of the remote. "It asked me if Sammy was gonna grow up and be a hunter like you, and then…then it said it knows why I'm here, who I am."

John sees the detachment in Dean's eyes. His son is intentionally trying to distance himself from what happened. He's about to ask Dean about Isaiah's behavior, when Dean cuts him off.

"After the accident, after it said all of that, something happened. Isaiah screamed and this black stuff came out of his mouth. Afterwards, it was like he was himself again." Dean looks confused and hopeful at the same time, waiting for John to explain what he had seen.

"It was the demon leaving his body," John says with a bit of disappointment. He had called Caleb's friend, explaining that he wouldn't be able to meet him. The man had told John what he knew, giving him detailed instructions on how to summon and trap the demon. The only catch being that John had to know who the demon was possessing. He had been hopeful that it was still in Isaiah.

"So you can't do an exorcism on him now, huh?" Sam asks quietly, letting his brother and father know he had been paying attention.

John shakes his head, "No. Not if it's not possessing him anymore."

"So, we're back to square one, then." Sam says, scooting his chair closer to his brother, before propping his feet on the bed. "Are you gonna talk to Isaac's brother?"

John stares at his nine year old, surprised at the logical thinking he's capable of at such a young age, especially considering the serious topic. "He's in ICU, they're only letting family in to see him."

"That's never stopped you before," Dean points out, blinking slowly as he falls closer to sleep.

"Yeah, but the staff knows me here. Your accident was pretty big news. I can't lie my way in," John explains. There's no way the nurses are going to let him talk to the kid that caused his son's accident, especially since that kid just lost most of his own family. "Get some rest, Dean. We'll work it out later."

"When can I get out of here?" Dean asks, his eyes already closed.

John smiles for the first time in over twenty-four hours. "Not today."

Later that evening, after making sure Dean's fast asleep, John and Sam test out the public bus system. The nearest bus stop puts them two miles from the trailer park, forcing them to walk the last bit home.

The sun's nearly set and there's a light mist to the air, the slight drizzling managing to soak the outer layer of their jackets by the time they reach the entrance to the trailer park.

Sam carefully steps over the thin salt line, shaking the rain from his hair, causing the wet strands to stick to his forehead and cheeks. John adds haircuts to the growing list of things his sons need as he takes off his jacket.

He grabs the small notepad he 'borrowed' from the nurses' station in the surgical ward. His hand-written notes outlining the necessary materials needed for the summoning spell along with a rough diagram of the symbol Caleb's friend had described, or what John hopes the symbol looks like. Some things are difficult to describe over the phone. He quickly rewrites the incantation, two short lines with an 'insert name here' space at the end. The catch, you have to know either who the demon is or who it's possessing in order to summon it.

There's always a catch.

Sam helps himself to a can of Vienna sausages as his father begins writing. He's halfway through the can when John stands and heads out to the car with an empty duffle bag. When he returns, he sets the bag on the table. "Come here, Sammy."

Sam sets the half-eaten can of sausages on the counter and walks towards his father. John hands him a piece of paper, five items written in his father's sloppy handwriting. "I want you to gather everything on that list."

"What's it for?" Sam asks, reading through the five items.

John continues rearranging the items in the duffle from the car, not looking up as he answers. "It's what you need for an exorcism."

"What's all that for?" Sam points to the borrowed notepad and the items his father had gathered from the car.

"Don't worry about that," John says, grabbing the summoning spell and placing it in the bag. "Hurry and get what I told you, I need you to make holy water."

Sam hurries and gathers the items on the list: a rosary, two gallons of water, chalk, salt, and rope. He places it on the table before grabbing the rosary and turning to the water.

"Make sure you speak loud so I know you're saying it right," John says as he hands Sam his journal. Making holy water had been one of the first things John taught the boys, along with how to lay a decent salt line. While John himself had taught Dean the correct pronunciations for the Latin prayer, he hadn't personally taught Sam, having left that task to Dean.

Sam holds the rosary above the jug, reading loudly from the journal before dropping the wooden cross into the water. Looking to see that his father's satisfied with his work, Sam moves on to the second jug of water.

He tries to focus on the tasks his father gives him, and not on his brother. He had wanted to stay at the hospital, and keep an eye on Dean, to try and offer comfort for the death of his friend.

Dean had tried to play it off, tried acting as though it didn't bother him, but Sam knew better. He hadn't been given much choice when Dean sided with their father, forcing Sam to leave.

Sam's finishing adding the last of the items to the duffle for the exorcism when his father hands him two knives and a gun. Sam looks at the weapons, confusion clear on his face. "What are those for?"

John sets them on top of the bag, and returns to his own. "Just in case."

Sam stares at his father, watching as he continues to prepares the bags, readying them for when they're needed. Finally, he puts the weapons away, tucking them in with the salt and rope. _Just in case_.

Dean spends the remainder of Saturday sleeping, not waking until well into Sunday. Sam and his dad make their way in early, keeping quiet so as not to wake him. By the time lunch rolls around, the doctor's already been by, letting them know that Dean could most likely go home the next day.

The news immediately brightens Dean's mood considerably. However, that doesn't last long as the lunch cart makes its way to his room. He's presented with a soft-foods tray, and even John, who lived off of military rations for a time, frowns at the array.

"It's baby food." Dean doesn't even move to grab his spoon.

"It's not baby food. It's normal food, just, you know, all squished up and stuff," Sam explains, trying to ease Dean's discomfort. "It should taste the same."

"Then you eat it." Dean grabs the spoon, scooping up a bit of the orange substance and sticking it in his brother's face.

"No thanks," Sam says, leaning away from the offered goo. "I'll wait till I get home."

"It's baby food, Sam. I used to feed it to you. Trust me, I know what it looks like." Dean tosses the spoon back on the tray, sending little globs of the orange goo onto the table.

"Dean," his father tries, knowing he can't force his son to eat what's on the tray. Dean, however, doesn't give him a chance to even try.

"NO! I'm not eating that. Its not real food," Dean argues, his eyes bright with held-back tears. "I'm not eating that. I want to go h-... I want to get out of here." He had almost said he wanted to go home. He knows they don't really have a home, not one that doesn't require an oil change. The trailer is just temporary, another pit stop in his family's never ending road trip. As soon as their dad deals with whatever demon's possessing people, they'll pack up and move, and for once, Dean doesn't mind.

"Dean. Stop this." Sam sits back at the sound of his father's tone. Dean drops his head, blinking his eyes as his ears begin to burn, his face blushing with a combination of embarrassment and anger. He doesn't want to be told to behave, or to watch the attitude.

He wants to go back in time, and stop himself from spending the night with Isaac, from talking to him that day at lunch. Hell, he wants to go back and stop his dad from ever reading about the town of Goodsprings.

Isaac and his mom would be alive if he hadn't screwed up. Some things are hard to learn, but once you learn them, you never forget. Dean had learned early on it wasn't worth the trouble to make friends. You get to know them, you like them, and then it's over. Someone moves on. Or dies.

"I'm sorry," Dean says, looking at the orange tinged spoon. He doesn't know if he's saying it to his father or to Isaac. It doesn't matter.

John just squeezes his son's shoulder, not really knowing what to say. After Mary died, Dean had been quiet, nearly mute. He hadn't had to answer questions then, not for a while. When Dean finally started talking, John had had some answers, he had something to tell his son, even though he probably shouldn't have shared that information.

Now, Dean's a teenager. He's no longer a little boy, scared into silence by the sudden absence of the one person he was never without. It's only been a couple of weeks, not really long enough for Dean to have really gotten to know the boy. But John knows it's hard to watch someone die. The Marines taught him that. They also taught him how to deal with it, to move on.

Once again biting the bullet, John chooses to be the hunter. He does it to keep his boys safe. He trusts them to understand.

"Dean, I know you're upset that your friend died. I know it's hard, son. Trust me, but you have to accept that it happened and move on. We don't have time to linger on this." John knows he sounds heartless, but he pushes forward. "The only way to stop this from happening to someone else, is to find that demon and send it back to Hell."

The moment John had started the speech, he saw a physical change in his son. It was small, but still there. Dean's shoulder had squared, his posture improving. Although his head was still angled downward, facing the food tray, John saw the muscle along Dean's jaw tense, his eyes harden.

"Yes, sir," is all Dean says, still refusing to eat the mush in front of him.

"Alright. You sit tight, I'll go see if I can sneak you a burger." John raps his knuckles against the bed's railing before standing and leaving his son's. "I'll be right back."

As soon as the door shuts, Dean leans back into the bed, pushing the table away as he lets his muscles relax.

"You okay?" Sam asks, still reeling from his father's blunt harshness.

"Yeah, I'm good, Sammy." Dean yawns, stretching his toes out as he feels the sleep come on. "I'm just tired of being here, of being in bed. All I do is sleep."

"Dad says it's all the medicine the doctors are giving you." Sam looks at the IV pole before looking back at his brother.

"Yeah, I kind of figured that Einstein, but thanks for the update." Dean's sarcasm doesn't deter his brother. Sam looks at the space between the railing and his brother's side, judging it. Determining that it's more than enough space to fit without 'jostling' his brother, as his dad had warned, Sam kicks off his shoes and climbs up.

"Dude, watch it," Dean complains even as he moves to give Sam more room. The worst of the pain is in his stomach, where the headrest had pinned him to his seat, but his entire body is one big bruise.

He had been lucky, at least according to Kendra, Dean's nurse. Dean really wishes he could get a different nurse, because Nurse Kendra is way too pretty, and doesn't seem to understand the notion of personal boundaries. Not to mention, she doesn't seem to care that Dean's completely naked beneath his hospital gown, showing no mercy when changing his bandages.

As Sam settles in, making certain not to pull on any of the tubes or wires seemingly attached to his brother, Dean thinks back to the night before, his first night in the hospital. His first night completely alone.

Yes, Nurse Kendra and whoever that lackey had been following her around visited him plenty, constantly checking his vitals and administering medication, but essentially, Dean was alone. No dad, no Sam.

Dean's had his own bed before, usually sleeping in the motel's second one when their dad left them alone. But Dean's never actually slept alone, at least not since the fire. Either his dad or brother has always been with him, within sight.

Sleeping at Isaac's had been a new experience for Dean, made all the worse by the aftermath of the following day. But even then, Isaac had been close by. Someone who wasn't a complete stranger.

But last night, there was no one with him, and as much as he hates to admit it, Dean had been scared. He wanted his brother, wanted someone to focus on so that when he closed his eyes he could count his brother's breathes, instead of picturing Isaac's slumped form or the outline of Mrs. Hardwicke's hair plastered to the seat.

He doesn't want to have to stay in the hospital another night.

Dean's in the process of trying to find a way to convince his doctor to let him leave early when the door opens, revealing John brandishing a paper-wrapped burger.

John breaks the burger in two, handing a half to either son. "It's all they had," he explains as Sam hungrily scarfs down his half. Dean's first bite shows his enthusiasm at having something non-mushy to eat. However, John notices that each bite gets smaller and smaller, eventually tapering off to a small nibble before Dean lands the last bite to Sam who greedily accepts.

"I thought you were hungry," John asks, earning a half-hearted shrug from Dean in reply.

"I ate most of it," Dean says in defense. John doesn't point out that Dean's 'most of it' hadn't even been half a burger. John knows his boys are growing, and growing boys need lots of food, well _require_ lots of food. He's personally witnessed Dean put away three cheeseburgers in one sitting when John had treated the family after receiving a new credit card. Dean's always been able to eat, even when sick.

He knows it's not an illness that's halting Dean's appetite. It's depression. Dean had done the same thing immediately after the fire. Only eating when ordered and even then in small amounts. John decides to choose his battles, and focuses on the fact that Dean's at least talking. He had been nearly mute after his mother's death.

"Do you think the doctor will let me out today?" Dean asks, his eyes focused on the TV as though he were simply thinking aloud.

"He said tomorrow, Dean." Sam answers, and John realizes, not for the first time, that his boys tend to exclude him from the conversation. Long car rides, whispering in the back seat, meaningful looks that possess the ability to transfer more meaning than words. All of it leaving John out of the loop. "Tomorrow, Dad and I will come pick you up and we can go home." Sam's voice is so matter-of-fact, so sure that John can't really argue.

His nine-year-old is doing his work for him. He's come to accept it from Dean, but John's a little un-nerved hearing Sam take on the parenting role. He shouldn't have to.

"Yeah, but Dad could sign me out, we could leave tonight." Dean continues the conversation, just as oblivious to John's presence as Sam seems to be.

"No, I can't." John's deep gravelly voice manages to grasp his sons' attention. "You can wait it out, till tomorrow."

"It's just one more night," Sam says, making John wonder if he was even heard. Dean appears to visibly deflate when it becomes clear that he won't be going home.

"Maybe I can stay with you?" Sam offers, looking to John hopefully, acknowledging the fact that his father has the last say. When Dean adds his version of the puppy-dog look, John stands and shakes his head.

"No, we went over this yesterday. I'm not doing this again." Dean drops his head, tracing the outline of the buttons on the remote. Sam just studies his brother, trying to discern what's going on in Dean's head.

John's about ready to scream from frustration, not entirely because of his boys, but because of the situation they're all currently in. He's saved from any embarrassing loss of self-control when a young nurse walks in, a pair of scrub pants in her hands.

"Hey, Dean. How are you feeling today?" she asks, and John immediately sees the freckles across Dean's nose begin to stand out as his son starts to blush.

Not waiting for an answer, the nurse hands Dean the pants. "We're going to start you walking around today. The doctor said you might go home tomorrow, so we have to make sure you can get up and go." She smiles at Sam, and waits patiently for him to slide down from the bed before she reaches for the blanket.

"I can do it myself," Dean tells her, grabbing onto the blanket tightly. "I know how to get dressed."

If it weren't so painfully obvious that Dean was embarrassed to have such a pretty nurse, John would have been angry at his son's rudeness.

"I can help him," he cuts in, reaching for the pants Dean had abandoned. Dean, in turn turns a momentarily betrayed look towards his father before relaxing. "Where does he need to walk?"

The nurse doesn't seem at all bothered by John's offer to help. She smiles and turns her attention to the boys' father, "He just needs to walk the hallway, circle around the nurses' station and then come back. His doctor wants him to get eight laps in before he leaves."

She turns back to Dean, smiling again before leaving, letting them know to ask for help if it's needed.

John, pants still in hand, moves to pick up where the nurse left off, reaching for the blanket.

"Dude! I thought you were kidding. I can dress myself." If John thought Dean had been embarrassed when Nurse What's-her-name had walked in the room, he can only describe the look on his son's face now as pure mortification.

"I know you know how to dress yourself. Who the hell do you think taught you?" John counters, leaning back on his heels and stepping away from the bed.

"Then what's with the whole," Dean gestures between the bed and the pants in his father's hands. "You know?"

"I _was_ gonna help you," John says, just as much indignation in his voice as in Dean's.

"I'm thirteen. I don't need help getting dressed."

"You're a _hurt_ thirteen year old who just had emergency surgery" John tosses the pants to Dean, taking another step back and leaning against the wall. "You're not gonna be able to move around like you're thinking you are."

"Yeah, I learned that when I tried to get up and take a piss last night." Dean sneers, tossing back the blanket and trying to catch the opening of the pants with his foot.

John rolls his eyes. He remembers a time when Pastor Jim's promise of washing his mouth out with soap had been enough of a deterrent to keep Dean from saying "shut up." He knows that's not likely to work now. Dean may think he doesn't hear, but John's fully aware his oldest has expanded his vocabulary.

"Fuck."

Case in point.

At Dean's whispered curse, John pushes off the wall and takes the waistband of the pants in his hand. He levels Dean with a glare that dares him to protest. After two seconds of a silent standoff between father and son, Dean reluctantly releases his hold on the pants, letting his father take control.

John quickly slips Dean's legs into the pants, pulling them up to his knees before stepping back. Dean refuses to make eye contact as he tentatively scoots to the end of the bed and pulls the pants up as far as they'll go without him standing.

John watches as Dean closes his eyes, and focuses his breathing. He's breathing through the pain, preparing for more. Grasping his son's forearms, John forces Dean to look at him, raising his eyebrows in silent acquiescence. "On three," John tells him, not giving Dean a chance to refuse.

Dean grips the fabric of his dad's jacket, readying himself for the mother of all pain. The night before, he thought he would die of embarrassment when Nurse Kendra and her lackey had to help him to the bathroom. That was until he felt the pain associated with getting out of bed, then he thought he might actually die from that.

On three, Dean pulls on John's jacket as John pull's on Dean's arms. It isn't until he's standing and the pain threatening to knock him out subsides that Dean realizes Sammy had been behind him, helping to push him into a standing position.

He can feel Sam's chubby hand still resting on the center of his back, his father's hands still holding him steady. He quickly pulls the pants up the rest of the way and steps into the slippers one of the nurses had left by his bed.

"Alright, let's do this thing." He doesn't say thank you. He doesn't have to. He knows that both his father and brother know he's grateful, even if slightly humiliated.

"Here's your pole." Dean turns to see Sam climbing off the bed, carefully pushing the IV pole towards him. "It can be like a walking stick."

Father on one side, brother on the other, Dean starts the journey towards the nurses' station, determined to hurry and get his eight laps in so he can go home. However, he's barely made it to the next room before he's ready to turn back around and call it a night.

He pushes forward, biting the inside of his cheek against the pain, against the nausea. When the dizziness makes its grand entrance, Dean places a hand on Sam's shoulder, balancing himself between his brother and the IV pole.

He ignores the nurses at the desk, keeping his eyes focused on his feet and the pale pink slippers. Why the hell did they give him _pink_ slippers? By the time he makes it back to his room, he gracefully falls back against his pillows, pretending not to notice when his dad lifts his legs up onto the bed, covering him with the blanket.

"Only seven more, kiddo." Dean snorts at his father's sense of encouragement. _Only _seven more can easily be re-written as _still_ seven more. Too many.

"This bites," he says to the ceiling, hating the obvious feeling of being weak. That's what he is. Physically weak. He's too tired to even keep his eyes open.

The remainder of visiting hours passes in a cycle. Dean being pulled out of bed to make a struggled journey down the hall, only to come back and take a short nap before being awoken to do it all again.

By the time his dad and Sam decide to leave, Dean's managed to complete five whole laps, leaving only three more for the following day. The day he gets to leave.

He knows he's dreaming. He has to be. It's the only explanation for why he's back in that van, back at the bottom of the ravine.

Isaac's still slumped in his seat, not watching as black smoke swirls outside his window. Isabelle's still crying, her screams high pitched and sharp. Isaiah's watching Dean, his mouth steadily filling with blood as it pours down his face.

Dean's aware of all of this, he knows every detail, even though he isn't looking. All his attention focused on the woman lying in the seat in front of him, the seat resting in his lap.

He knows she's dead, or at least he thinks she is. But when she slowly starts to tilt her head, her back arching as she moves to look at Dean, he realizes he was probably wrong. The movement causes her bloody hair to inch closer towards Dean, the soaked curls falling off the headrest, staining his jeans.

When Dean looks into her eyes, he sees that inky blackness, unnatural in every way. When she speaks, her voice isn't like it was, like it should be. It's hollow and cold, like a water drop in a metal sink.

"I'm here, Dean."

And the blackness is back, the smoke filling the van, pouring in through the window from outside.

Dean's eyes fly open, searching the corners of the room, the lights from the parking lot shining through the window, providing enough illumination for him to see that no one's with him.

He tries to calm his breathing, to force his body to relax. It's as though every fiber of his being is vibrating with unwanted energy, like the power you feel when the lightning's waiting for its thunder. There's a relentless itching deep inside him, crawling its way in between the spaces separating muscle and bone.

There's an unnerving pressure against his mind, not his brain, but his actual mind. A tickle trying to blend in with the panic, putting forth an effort not to stand out as Dean desperately searches for its source.

And then there's a calm.

Dean waits for a sign, for some clue as to what just happened, but nothing comes. His breathing evens out, his muscles relax, and he falls back into the black. Back to the dreams, which seem so much more vivid than before.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean's a little surprised to see his brother bursting through the door. For some reason, he thought Sam would have gone to school, but instead, he decided to play hooky, riding shotgun so he can help spring Dean from the hospital.

He's still a little rattled when they begin lap number six, the first of the day. After the first dream, Dean had found the remainder of his night filled with nightmares, each from the viewpoint of someone else, through the eyes of a stranger, as though he were watching it from their point of view.

It was all death, people always dieing. He never woke up, not until Nurse Kendra came back in to take his vitals and the doctor began to poke around on his stomach. Right near his freakin' incision.

One painful trip to the bathroom and a clean bandage later, he found himself propped up in bed, waiting for his dad to arrive. He was a little disappointed when the doctor said that Dean had to finish his laps before he would discharge him. That means waiting until the doctor finishes his rotation, a day full of surgeries. That means that Dean isn't leaving until tonight, no matter how quickly he finishes his laps.

When John props his feet on the foot of the bed, filling Dean in on the preparations he and Sam had done while Dean's been in the hospital, Dean feels the tickle return.

He tries to chase it, like Alice after the white rabbit. Running circles through his conscious. The tickle laughs at him, always a step ahead, forever out of reach.

When John snaps his fingers, forcing Dean's attention back to the present, to the worried faces of his family, Dean lets it go, allows it to hide again.

"You okay, Dean?" John has one leg off the bed, readying to bring down the other, preparing to stand. Dean looks between Sam and his father, and lets his face quirk into an embarrassed smirk.

"Yeah, I, uh… I'm just a little tired." He hopes that's the truth. That maybe he's having a seriously delayed allergic reaction to whatever's been pumping through the IV for the last two days. Dean might only be in the eighth grade, but he knows it's not normal to be chasing voices in your head.

The sun's already set by the time Dean's given the all clear to leave. He's wrapped in his jacket, his father's lying across his knees as he's wheeled towards the exit. Sam's already waiting in the backseat, a goofy grin on his goofy little face. Seeing it, Dean can't help smiling, too. Possibly the first real smile since the accident.

His dad and the orderly help ease him into the car, giving him a pillow to hug for the ride. Dean lets his eyes slip shut as the engine starts, the familiar rumble beneath the seat promising that things are going to be okay. As his father drives them out of the parking lot, Dean tries to focus on Sam's voice, fighting to stay awake until they get home.

He's slept so much the last few days; he's tired of it.

When he feels the car slow, the familiar sound of tires over gravel, Dean knows he lost that fight. He could have sworn they were still in the hospital parking lot.

"Sam, go unlock the door." John tosses the keys to his youngest before climbing out of the car. He circles around, opening the passenger door as Sam runs on ahead. Dean's looking up at him through heavy eyes, his lids at half-mast.

"Come on, kiddo." He lifts his oldest carefully, surprised at how heavy he's gotten. It's been a few years since John's had to carry Dean, and it's getting to the point where it's awkward. His son's grown a lot in the last few months, and he knows pretty soon it will be to the point where it'll be a struggle to lift him at all.

Dean lets his head fall back as John pushes the car door shut with his foot, one arm tucked beneath Dean's knees, the other behind his shoulders as he follows Sam up the cinder block steps.

Sam opens the front door and pushes it in so his father will have room to carry Dean inside. John takes a step forward, his foot landing on the small welcome mat, but something stops his body from walking through the frame. It's like an unseen force, pushing him back.

Sam looks up at his dad questioningly. "Dad?"

"Something's wrong," John murmurs, turning to look around him but seeing nothing but other trailers and porch lights. He feels his son begin to stir in his arms and John looks down as Dean opens his eyes, revealing a hint of green.

Suddenly, John feels a sick dread begin to beat inside of him. It's not that he can't get through the front door. It's that he can't carry Dean through the front door.

"Dad, what's wrong?" Sam asks, and Dean turns confused eyes towards his brother. John keeps his foot on the welcome mat, and steadies himself, physically and emotionally.

"Christo." The word is barely out of his mouth before Dean's head jerks towards him, all traces of green gone as two black orbs shine in the glow of the various porch lights.

John all but drops his son as he quickly sits him down and steps through the doorframe, pushing Sam behind him.

He watches in horror as his oldest son picks himself up off the ground, and stands tall, all traces of earlier pain gone. Dean's eyes are back to the familiar shade of green, but the smile doesn't belong to his son. It doesn't fit with that face, and John wants to cry out in anger and fear.

"Hey, John. You're not looking too good." It's his son's voice, and John just wants to scream.

"Daddy?" Sam hasn't called him Daddy in years, not since he was old enough to tie his shoes.

"Sam, get me my bag. Now."

"Now, John, we both know you don't want to do that." The thing takes a step towards him, his hands resting on the outer frame of the door. It's still smiling the wrong smile, still looking at him through his son's eyes. "We wouldn't want to hurt Junior, now would we?"

"Now, Sam," John orders, trying to ignore the sound of Dean's voice taunting him. Sam grips the hem of John's shirt, unknowingly pulling at it at he watches his brother start to laugh.

"Hey, little Sammy. Don't be scared." Sam tries not to cry out when his brother's eyes turn black, an unfamiliar smile lighting his face.

"Don't you talk to him." John's harsh tone causes Sam to jump back, tears forming in his eyes as he slowly starts to understand what's happening. He's been able to put two and two together since he was five.

The thing standing on their front step isn't his brother. He gives one last tug on his father's shirt before turning to retrieve the prepared bag. It's resting at the foot of his father's bed, the two jugs of holy water setting right beside it.

He tries to ignore the sounds of the gun and the knives clanking against one another. _Just in case_. Just in case shouldn't apply when the thing's possessing Dean. Sam just hopes his father agrees.

When Sam reaches the living room, he sees that his father hasn't moved, but whatever it is that's holding Dean isn't where it was when Sam left. He inches closer to John's side, the bag banging against his shins as he holds it in front of him, one jug gripped tightly in his left hand. He follows his father's gaze, his eyes immediately going to the image of Dean leaning up against the car.

The smile's still there, still twisting his brother's face. Dean's always smiling, a cocky, self-assured, crooked smile. Miss Margie had teased Dean about it, about his brother's smile. What Sam's looking at isn't Dean's smile, but then again, this isn't Dean.

Sam doesn't say anything, he just pushes the bag against his father's side, relieved when John takes the weight into his own hands. It's not that the bag's heavy, it's just that Sam's having a difficult time accepting the fact that that bag's going to be used on his brother, on the thing that's not his brother.

_Just in case_.

Sam's waiting for his dad to do something, to take some form of action to get that thing out of Dean. He sees his dad start to raise the bag, his fingers on the zipper, but before the bag can be opened. The thing leaning against the car winks, honest to god _winks_. The next thing Sam knows, the front door is slamming shut, his father dropping the bag as he reaches for the door handle.

Not knowing what else to do, Sam stands dumbfounded, listening to his father yell as he pulls against the door, trying his best to get it open. Sam can't remember ever seeing his dad scared. He's seen him worried, angry, frustrated, but never really scared.

But when the door finally opens, revealing nothing more than a car and an empty lawn, Sam knows exactly what it looks like to see fear in his father's eyes.

John only stares out the door for a few seconds before he's moving into action. The hunter has to be in control. He has to be, because the father can't deal with this. He quickly grabs the second jug of holy water, reaching beneath his bed for the second duffle, the one holding the materials necessary for the summoning spell. He grabs the keys, still stuck in the front door and yells for Sam to hurry up, relieved when he doesn't have to tell his son to grab the dropped bag.

Sam looks around, searching for any sign as to where the demon had taken Dean as he climbs into the front seat of the car. His dad hurriedly throws the car into gear, before speeding out of the small driveway, not caring about throwing gravel.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?" his father responds distractedly.

"We're not gonna look for Dean?" Sam can't understand why they're leaving, why they didn't search the trailer park for his brother, for the thing that's not his brother.

"No. We're gonna bring him to us." John reaches into one of the bags. Retrieving his journal, he keeps one hand on the wheel, eyes alternating between pages and the road as he looks for the handwritten entry he had added years before.

"Read this out loud to me," he hands Sam the journal, opened to a page with a long Latin verse written in smeared ink. "Pronounce it clearly, ask me if there's a word you don't know how to say."

"Is this the exorcism spell?"

"It's not a spell, but yeah, it's for the exorcism," John doesn't look at Sam. He can hear the fear in his son's voice, he doesn't need to see it. The hunter has to take control.

"Why do want me to read it to you?"

John grips the steering wheel tighter, forcing himself to pretend he isn't about to ask the world of a nine-year-old.

"Because, I need to know that you can say it right when we get to Dean."

With the exception of occasionally holding a flashlight, acting as lookout, or trying to gather information, Sam has never actually done anything on a hunt. He's trained for it, practiced with his brother, running maneuvers and daily PT. But actually being hands on, physically lending a hand to help his father get rid of a monster? No, this is completely new to him.

Sam knows that Dean's helped out numerous times. His brother's bragged about it, he's been hurt because of it, but Sam's pretty certain Dean's never done an exorcism either.

This will be a first for both of them. Sam just wishes Dean were playing a different part.

Holding the book closely so he can make out the words in the dark, Sam clears his throat and tries not to let his fear show in his voice.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…"

For the first time in a long time, John wants to cry. He has no idea where Dean is, no idea what that thing's doing to him, what it's making him do. He knows his son is hurt, and more than just from the surgery. He had seen the bruises when Dean was changing out of the hospital gown.

He knows not everyone survives an exorcism. Demonic possessions are rough, and the human body can only take so much. Add that to an already injured thirteen-year-old, and Dean's chances aren't looking too good—especially if the demon wants to really do some damage, if it really wants to hurt John.

He's keeping his eyes on the road, listening as his young son reads a Latin prayer. A few years ago, he was reading Dr. Seuss from the back seat, asking his big brother a thousand and one questions.

_Have you ever seen a wocket? Can you say 'Floob-Boober-Bab-Boober-Bubs' ten times fast? What about 'zizzer-zazzer-zuzz', that one's fun._

Dean, for the most part, had played along, grinning in triumph when he could, in fact say 'Floob-Boober-Bab-Boober-Bubs' ten times fast, and sticking his tongue out and sneering while Sam would laugh after he got tongue tied on 'zizzer-zazzer-zuzz.

For a long time, John went along with the ruse; pretending to be a traveling salesman, telling his youngest that Mary had died in a car accident. The day he walked into a motel room to find a devastated looking Dean admitting that the gig was up, he had felt a little relieved and a little sad all at the same time.

Sammy couldn't be the baby anymore.

"Ergo draco maledicte…"

Listening to Sam attempt to fight back the tears, an occasional sniffle interrupting the surprisingly well-practiced Latin, John thinks it won't hurt to wait a few more years before bringing Sam into another hunt.

Especially after how rough this one's going to be.

Dean had started young. Hell, he still is young. Thirteen isn't exactly a grown man. For some reason, John can't see Sam and Dean the same. Dean's made for this, he's known the truth for as long as John has. Sam though…

Sam's still learning things, they all are, but Sam more than the others. John can't help wanting to keep Sam safe, to hide him away from everything, Dean, too. Despite constantly telling Dean it's time for Sam to grow up, John still sympathizes with his oldest's desire to shield Sam from what's really out there.

Sam and Dean are different, John knows this. And he loves them both because of it, and despite it.

It's a small abandoned gas station about five minutes out of town—far enough to garner some privacy. John parks the car inside the rundown automatic car wash, the immobile and mold covered rollers hiding it from anyone who might pass by.

John grabs both duffle bags and a jug of the holy water in one hand, wrapping the other around Sam's wrist, who struggles to keep a hold on the other jug and the journal while his father pulls him towards the back entrance of the dark convenience store.

The place is completely emptied, gutted from the inside out; even the light bulbs are gone. John quickly pulls open the duffle he had packed, grabbing one of the battery operated lanterns and a canister of salt.

Pushing Sam to a corner, John hands him the lantern, telling him to turn it on as he works to carefully pour a circle of salt around his son's feet.

"You do not leave this circle, do you hear me?" Sam nods his understanding, eyes wide with fear and anticipation. "I mean it Sam. No matter what happens. I need to know that you understand."

"I do." Sam's voice is small, but determined.

"I don't want you to listen to anything it says, it's not Dean. You do what I tell you, nothing else."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't listen to it, Sam."

"Because it's not Dean."

"Exactly." John rests his hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezing in hopes of showing encouragement, silently saying _we can do this_.

The hunter has to be in control.

He quickly walks to the opposite corner, purposefully putting distance between him and Sam.

He takes out the borrowed notepad and a piece of chalk, carefully copying the symbol on the chipped linoleum floor.

He should have known better. He shouldn't have left Dean alone at the hospital. His son had been upset, a near emotional wreck. He was wide open to demonic possession, and John just left him alone.

Tossing the chalk away, wiping the dust on his jeans, John works on completing the remainder of the ritual. He empties the prepared ingredients into a small bowl, turning his back so Sam won't see him prick his finger to add the necessary few drops of blood. Lighting the candles, he grabs the notepad, taking a deep breath before reading out the two lines, whispering Dean's name at the end.

Nothing.

Nothing happens. There's no wind, no stutter to the candlelight. There's no one in the room except for he and Sam. John looks at the symbol on the ground and compares it to the one on the notepad, trying to remember exactly how the man had described it.

"Dad…" The sound of his name said with so much fear makes the hair on the back of his neck tingle. He turns slowly, a fully filled flask of holy water is gripped tightly in his hand, the jug opened ready to use at his feet.

The demon's standing directly in front of Sam, Dean's toes nearly touching the salt line. Sam's sitting Indian style, the journal, opened and ready to read, clutched tightly to his chest. He's looking up at his brother, his entire frame shaking.

"Hey, Sammy. You wanna see what I can do?" The demon's holding a knife, the blade already covered in blood, and John feels his breathing catch. He doesn't know which he prefers. Either that's Dean's blood or the demon used his son to hurt someone else. Either way, it's bad.

Sam manages to look away from the image of his brother, and turns towards his father, searching for guidance.

"Get away from him." The demon turns its head at the sound of John's voice, its eyes black, the smile slowly disappearing at the sight of the flask and the poorly drawn symbol on the floor.

"I'm just being friendly," it says using Dean's voice as it turns fully to face John, Sam forgotten in the corner. "It's polite, you know."

"Why are you doing this?" John asks, as the demon takes a small step towards him.

"Because if anything happens to one of them, it'll just kill you," the demon says, its smile once again returning, distorting Dean's face. "And to be fair, you were planning on killing me first."

It takes another step closer, raising the blood stained knife and twirling the tip against a finger. "You know, it's been about what? Twenty minutes since I last saw you? A lot can happen in twenty minutes." The demon slowly raises Dean's right hand, showing John a thin red line, working its way down Dean's wrist diagonally from palm to elbow.

There's only a little blood, telling John that it's not deep, but it's still too much.

"Wanna see some more?" The demon doesn't wait for an answer, it just raises the bottom of Dean's shirt, revealing a darkly bruised abdomen and a small incision to the left of his belly button from where the surgeon had repaired the internal bleeding.

The stitches are gone, the top of Dean's pants smeared with blood as more shallow cuts slowly bleed. John counts three before the demon lets the shirt fall back over Dean's stomach.

"I was gonna do more, but…" the demon looks back towards the symbol and candles, "you kind of interrupted my plans."

"I'm sorry," says John, pulling a card from Dean's book, his voice thick with sarcasm. "I know that was probably rude of me."

The demon smirks and this time it's more like Dean's, and John feels his stomach start to knot. When the demon takes another step closer, John takes another deep breath.

The best attack is a sudden one, but it still needs to be planned out. John's been planning since the moment the demon revealed itself.

He waits until the demon's close enough, then he lashes out, quickly grabbing the arm with the knife, spinning his son's body and pinning it against him.

"Now, Sam! Read it."

Sam only stutters once, quickly recovering as he tries to block out what's happening less than ten feet from him.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio

infernalis adversarii, omnis legio…"

The moment John hears Sam begin reading from the journal, he feels Dean's body revolt, his son's muscles tightening as the demon fights against what's happening. He manages the get the demon to drop the knife, quickly kicking it out of reach.

He brings the flask up, pouring what he can against the demon's chest—the demon's, not his son's. The hunter has to take over. The smoke rises as the water comes into contact with skin.

He feels his feet knock over the jug, holy water pouring out onto the floor. John quickly drops to his knees, bringing the struggling form with him.

"…omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo draco maledicte…"

Pushing against its shoulders, John presses the demon onto the ground, right on top of the growing puddle of holy water.

The demon screams, a mixture of sounds. It's all pain, but John can hear Dean in there. He can hear his son along with something else- a water drop in a metal sink.

The two overlap, as though John were listening to two different people, two stations playing through the same speaker.

He looks up and sees Sam's terrified eyes watching the smoke form as the water burns Dean's skin, listening to his brother's screams.

"Keep reading!"

Sam blinks, quickly wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket as he picks up where he left off.

"Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire te rogamus, audi nos…"

John pulls the demon back, lifting it from the water. The hunter's taken over, but the father still hears the screams.

He wraps his arms around it, keeping its wrists locked in place as it fights to get free.

"You want to know what I did, what I can do?" it hisses between the pain. "Want to know what I made him see?"

John tries to ignore what it's saying, focuses instead on trying to keep it still. It lets Dean's head hang from his neck, gasping in deep breaths as Sam continues to read.

"I'm showing him what it looks like to watch his mother burn." It laughs, hollow and cold. John holds his breath, wishing Sam would read faster, wishing this had never happened.

"You don't believe me?" It asks, trying its best to push away from John. "You should. We like to talk. We demons, I mean, and the one that smoked sweet little Mary? Well, he _really_ likes to brag…" It's cut off as a scream breaks through, the dual sound returning. Part Dean, part demon.

Breathing heavily, it continues its last stitch effort to hurt John. "It's playing over in Dean's head. Like a treasured family movie. Her trapped on the ceiling—"

"Shut up," John can only whisper as he continues to struggle against the demon's waning efforts.

It laughs again, but only for a second.

"Benedictus deus. Gloria patri." Sam finishes the verse, looking up, desperation radiating even from across the salted line.

Dean's back arches, his head tilting back as a primal and pain filled scream erupts along with the black smoke, disappearing into nowhere.

It lasts longer than it should, and then it's over. Dean collapses against John, his head angled down, his body shaking with exhaustion. John lets Dean's wrists fall, and reaches up, placing his hand on Dean's forehead and pulling it back, wanting to see green instead of black.

He sees neither. Only pain, deep and emotional.

The barely audible plea of "mom," tells John that the demon wasn't lying. It really had shown Dean Mary's death.

"Dad?" Sam's standing now, the journal long forgotten at his feet.

John rests his hand against Dean's head, letting his cheek rest against sweat soaked hair. "He's okay," he tells Sam, before whispering into Dean's ear, "It's okay."

John feels the tear tracks on his face. He had been completely unaware that they were even there, oblivious to the fact that he had been crying.

"Can I come out now?" Sam asks, one foot shaking over the salt line as he waits for his father's answer. A simple nod from John is all that's needed, and Sam's across the room, falling to his knees to look at his brother.

"Dean?" He rests his hands on his brother's knees, studying Dean's face. Dean doesn't say anything, but he opens his eyes, meeting Sam's hopeful look. "Are you okay?"

Dean nods, not even trying to do anything more. He doesn't know if he can.

"Sam, get the journal and the bags. Don't worry about everything else." John stands, carefully easing Dean off the ground. When Dean's knees refuse to hold him up, John catches him, cradling his son in his arms like he had less than an hour before.

"Come on, let's go." Sam follows his father out, not bothering to look behind him. Everything he's worried about is walking towards a broken down carwash.

Sam dashes ahead, opening the back door.

"You get in first," John tells him, patiently waiting. He looks at Dean, at the blank look in his eyes, and John knows it's not over. Sometimes it's easier to be a hunter.

Once Sam's situated, John sits Dean down beside him, easing him down gently towards Sam's lap when Dean makes no effort to remain sitting up. Dean rests his head on Sam's knee, and brings his legs up in a close replication of the fetal position.

Sam, still unfamiliar with Dean acting anyway but like Dean, looks towards John, silently asking what to do.

"Just watch him till we get home." John shuts the door, mindful of Dean's feet.

They're only five minutes out of town, but it feels like longer. No one speaks at first. John drives in the direction of the trailer park, for once minding the speed limit. The last thing they need is to get pulled over.

When he looks in the rear-view mirror, he sees Sam looking down, his shaggy hair hiding his face.

"Sam?" The sound of his name causes him to look up, fear still present in his eyes.

"He fell asleep," Sam says, glancing once again at his brother before looking back at the mirror. "But his eyes are his."

John can only nod.

This time, when John carries Dean through the doorway, there's no force pushing him back. The salt line's destroyed, having been blown about when the demon forced the door shut.

He lays Dean down on the bed, and Sam is there with the first-aid kit before he even has to ask. Carefully, so as not to wake Dean, John slowly starts to pull Dean's shirt over his head.

The bruising from the accident is at it's worst. A dark path runs from Dean's right shoulder to blend with the bruising near his left hip. The mark of the seatbelt tattooed on his skin.

The cuts the demon made are indeed shallow, the worst only needing butterfly stitches. John knows that the demon had just been getting started. The damage would have been so much worse had he not hurried.

Sam sits silently, watching as his dad cleans and bandages the cuts on his brother's body. Dean wakes up, but still remains quiet. He simply looks down to see what his father's doing before turning towards Sam.

Sam doesn't give him a choice. He reaches out and takes Dean's hand, holding it while his father finishes up. To Dean's credit, he doesn't argue, or try to shove Sam away. He just lies still and lets them tend to him.

When John finishes checking for other injuries, he fetches a bottle of water and the medication the hospital had sent home. Helping Dean sit up, he watches to make sure Dean takes them, before allowing him to lie back down.

Seeing the blank look still in Dean's eyes, John rubs his hands over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. He needs air, he needs to leave the room. He had intended to go outside, but he never makes it farther than just outside the boys' door, letting the wall hold him up as he listens to Sam tell Dean that everything's going to be okay.

His nine-year-old is doing his job for him. Sometimes it's easier to be the hunter.

When he goes back in, John finds Dean asleep, Sam sitting next to him, one hand resting on Dean's chest. Their breathing in sync.

Dean sleeps for two days, only waking to use the restroom and force down the water and food his father places in front of him. Sam stays home from school, insisting that he can help. John can only agree. John has to order Dean to eat, Sam only has to ask.

The third day, John makes Sam go to school. He needs to talk to Dean, to try and get Dean to talk, to do anything other than sleep. He knows what Dean saw, what the demon showed him, and John doesn't want to discuss it in front of Sam. He doesn't want to discuss it at all, but it needs to be done. Dean has to move on.

John didn't think it would be that difficult to convince Sam it was time to go back to school. After all, Sam's been the one more concerned with when and where he and Dean attend school for the last few years. However, the one thing that will make Sam willingly miss school is his brother. John should have known.

"You already called my teacher. She said she'll work with me to make up this week. Dad, please…"

"Samuel, go get on the bus." John orders. He's quickly running out of patience. But Sam just considers orders friendly suggestions. Unless they're coming from Dean.

"Sammy, go. I'll be fine." John and Sam both turn, each equally surprised to see Dean standing in the doorway wearing the same clothes he's had on for the past three days.

"Dean…"

"I'm not a baby, Sammy," Dean says, reiterating his brother's favorite saying, the corners of his mouth quirking up into a crooked grin. His grin. It's the first emotion Dean's shown since the exorcism, since that whispered plea for his mom. "Go to school."

Sam crinkles his nose, thinking it over, before letting out a huff of air. "Fine," he says, like he really has a choice. "I'll see you _right_ after school."

"You better hurry, Runt. Dad'll be pissed if he has to drive you."

John, who had realized his boys were having another one of their SamandDean only conversations, looks to Sam, glaring so as to prove Dean's last statement.

Sam looks once more to his brother, his shoulders sagging with defeat before rushing off to catch the bus.

John locks the door, turning to find Dean heading back towards the bedroom.

"Where are you going?" John asks, determined to get the hard part out of the way.

"Dad. The smell that's coming off of me, totally offends. I need a shower." Dean smiles again, pulling at his t-shirt.

"Wait a minute," John's suddenly nervous. He's not good at the whole touchy-feely kind of thing. Mary had been the only one to bring that out of him, but he knows he should say something about what the demon showed him.

But what? He can't just come out and ask, "Dean, I know you saw your mom dying. Do you want to talk about it?"

Well, he probably can ask it, but he really doesn't want to. He wouldn't know how to have that conversation.

"Dad, please. Let's not do this." The smiles gone, replaced by a solid look of desperation. Dean knows what his father wants to talk about; it's been the only thing running through his mind for the last few days.

He remembers all of it. It hadn't been long, but the demon hadn't needed long to inflict its damage. That tickle that Dean had chased around his mind had transformed into an itch, a deep crawling that pushed him to the side and took complete control. Alice had fallen down the rabbit hole.

It had been sudden, and unexpected. It wasn't until his father had whispered 'christo' that Dean had even been aware of what had happened. Instead of blocking Dean out, shutting him off from everything around him, the demon had given him a front row seat, complete with 3D glasses for the one-time showing of _This is How Your Life Ends_.

He could only sit back and watch as the demon used him. His voice, his hands. He had watched as his fingers grasped a knife, slicing through the bandages on his arm, deep enough to break the skin, before moving to his stomach. He had watched as the demon meticulously pulled the stitches out, and Dean was glad there were only three.

He had thought that was bad, but like all things Winchester, it can always get worse. He would come to realize that bad was preferable.

The demon showed him memories. Memories from other people, memories _of_ other people. All of them dying. One of them sticking out.

He saw his mom die. Her blonde hair splayed across the ceiling, her silent scream drowned through the roar of the fire. He saw his dad leave, saw the devastation in his eyes when it was too late. He saw her burn.

The demon had shown it over and over. Slice and burn. That's what had happened after the demon shut the door, locking what was left of his family inside.

He honestly has no idea how he had ended up in that building, wherever it was. One minute he's standing in his neighbor's kitchen, steak knife carving a line into his skin, and the next he's standing in front of a very terrified Sammy.

Dean hadn't realized at the moment that his dad knew what happened, what the demon had shown him. It happened much later, when he was replaying everything in his mind. He realized the demon had told. It had used his voice and told his father what Dean had seen, what he was seeing at the time. A two for one matinee. Watching your family break. Your brother trembles while your father cries, and your mother burns.

Dean knows that's what's on his father's mind. But Dean doesn't want to discuss it. He doesn't want to remember it. He doesn't know how.

He had hoped that by getting out of bed, by showing that he still could, his dad would let it drop. John's not good at the emotional stuff. After all, _I'm sorry, dude_ is as deep as John Winchester's apologies go.

"I'm gonna go shower," Dean cuts in when it looks like his father might try again.

"Dean, listen to me." And Dean does. He stops and faces his father, waiting to bite the bullet.

But John never fires, his aim is off. "I just, I know what…"

"I know," Dean saves him when it looks like his dad might drown while searching for a way to say what he doesn't want to say.

"I'm sorry." That's as deep as it's gonna get.

Dean just nods, turning to go wash away the last of the tickle, and everything it left behind.

Friday is Sam's last day of school at New Hope Elementary. John picks him up before the bus runs, not even bothering to tell his teachers that he won't be coming back. The car's already packed and ready to go. For the first time since Sam turned five, he doesn't complain about the sudden move, the abrupt disruption.

He, just like Dean and his father, is happy to put New Hope behind him. He had already planned to forget all about Goodsprings, and everything that's happened since his father first uttered its name. But Sam's a smart kid. He's been putting two and two together since he was five.

He knows he'll never forget what happened.

Dean may not be the smartest kid in his class, but he's definitely not stupid. If there's something he doesn't know, it's because he hasn't learned it yet, not because he's incapable of learning it.

Some things are learned the hard way. Bad things happen, friends don't last forever and they're not worth the trouble—especially the trouble you cause them. He knows he'll never forget Goodsprings or New Hope, but he's going to pretend that he can. Lesson learned.

The End.

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**Thank you to everyone that took the time to read this, even more thanks to those who reviewed. **

**By the by, the Latin passage that Sam reads is the same one that he read in the season one episode 'Phantom Traveler', well snippets from it. The whole thing is much longer.  
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**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed.**


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